


ego te absolvo

by peacefrog



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catholic Guilt, Confessional, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Two Catholics attempt phone sex and are Very Catholic about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-04-22 20:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 45,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14316774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: This is his favorite part, the only part of this that matters. The soul on the other side light as a feather, slipping from the confessional with strains of forgiveness thrumming under their skin, real as a song, a hymn shared by only the two of them and their Lord above.Or the one where Marcus and Tomas are priests from neighboring parishes who have been toeing the line of friendship and intimacy for six months. Marcus finds comfort in providing absolution, while fighting to keep the secrets of his past at bay.





	1. Chapter 1

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself, and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins.” The words flow from Marcus’ tongue like water. He could speak them backward if he needed to. “Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

This is his favorite part, the only part of this that matters. The soul on the other side light as a feather, slipping from the confessional with strains of forgiveness thrumming under their skin, real as a song, a hymn shared by only the two of them and their Lord above.

One more, yes. Just one more, Marcus thinks. One more and I may rest. Tonight, I may rest.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” Marcus recognizes at once the voice of his friend.

“Am I to pretend that I don’t know you then?”

There is a pause, a shifting, then Tomas says, “I don’t need you to pretend.”

Marcus smiles. Tomas Ortega’s parish sits just next to his, their respective towns so small and so close together it was impossible for the two of them to not become quick friends when Tomas was transferred from Chicago six months ago. This, however, is the first time Tomas has come to him a penitent.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” Tomas begins again. “It has been… more than a year since my last confession.”

“Long time,” says Marcus, watching Tomas’ face in flashes through the screen. “What is the nature of your sin, my friend?”

A stretch of silence, then, “My nephew, Luis, stayed with me last night, and when he asked if I had any ice cream, I said no. I lied, because I wanted it for myself.”

“Surely you’re not coming to confession for the first time in more than a year over a little gluttony, Father Tomas.”

Tomas sighs, and through the veil between them Marcus can see that he is smiling. “It is a sin.”

“I’m not giving you penance for eating ice cream.”

“I haven’t actually eaten it yet.”

The two of them laugh then, quietly, their bodies trembling in a joy that is seldom seen within the confines of Marcus’ confessional. When Marcus has managed to contain his hysterics he says, “Why are you really here, Father Tomas?”

The pull of Tomas’ breathing filters through the partition. It’s a gentle sound, one that could lull Marcus to sleep were he to allow it, and he resists the urge to yawn. It’s been a long day. Long week. Long life.

When Tomas answers finally with, “Maybe I just wanted to see you,” it rips the air from Marcus’ lungs.

“You always see me,” Marcus all but whispers when he’s remembered how to use his tongue.

“It’s been a while,” Tomas reminds him. “A week.”

“Eight days,” says Marcus, feeling foolish, not having realized he’d been keeping count until the words were let loose. They taste illicit and they shouldn’t. He’s done nothing wrong.

“Have dinner with me,” says Tomas.

“I’ve got an early morning.” Both of their lives are a perpetual cycle of early mornings. Marcus fills with regret.

Just when Marcus has begun to worry he’s offended his friend by rejecting his invitation, Tomas says, “I hope to see you soon, Father Marcus,” and Marcus reaches his hand toward the screen obstructing his view. He wants terribly to see the full breadth of Tomas’ easy smile, but the very air around him seems to protest.

Lust is a sin, but that’s not what this is. Covetousness, a gnawing ache. No. A desire to consume with his eyes, to be consumed by the vision before him. His friend is very beautiful. To admire the beauty of a friend is not a sin. Tomas was created in God’s image. Tomas Ortega is proof of God’s love.

Marcus lowers his hand away from the partition. “Say two hail marys and give your nephew some ice cream.”

Contrition. Absolution. Amen. Tomas leaves him to quietly gather his thoughts, and when Marcus slips from the confessional the church is dark and empty. He raises his arms high above his head and stretches his weary muscles, sinew and bone protesting and reminding him of his age. He’s become too sedentary since settling down in this little parish. 

Marcus locks up, wanders out into the night. The air is chilly as the day slips from it as easily as sins from a penitent. Above, the sky threatens rain, and Marcus hastily walks from the church to his little clergy house next door. It’s a shack, if he’s being honest, little more than a space for a bed, a desk, a washroom, and something that might pass for a kitchen if one were feeling generous, but for Marcus it is enough. After having spent the bulk of his life living out of a bag and curling up in darkened corners, having his own bed to crawl into every night feels so indulgent it could be a sin.

Marcus has dinner, bathes, says his nightly prayers. He strips down and crawls into his narrow bed. He thinks, as his eyes are slipping shut to welcome sleep in like an old friend, that he would like nothing more than to steal away all of the sins of the world, every last one, and usher them into the sky. To strip them from every weary soul and deliver them unto their Lord, where he may at once leave them forever unburdened. 

If he could do that, then he could rest. Forever, he could rest. There would be nothing left for the foulest of spirits to twist were he to make it so. In the back of his mind, a darkness nags him, but he pushes it down in favor of thinking of Tomas. He smiles, hoping his friend’s soul may pass into dreams tonight easy and light as air.

—

Morning. Breakfast. Mass. Marcus shutters himself away to work on a sermon that’s been gnawing at him for weeks. _The forgiveness of sin,_ he writes, _is the deepest form of intimacy one could hope to achieve, for both the penitent and the priest. To unburden another, to absolve them in the eyes of God, is the purest act of love. To seek absolution is to seek God’s love. Ask, and it will be given to you. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and the door will be opened to you. There is no sin that cannot be forgiven if the penitent is truly contrite, and if their heart is truly open to Our Lord and Savior._

Marcus sets aside an hour to hear confession every evening, and it would seem for these past two years he’s lived for that hour each day alone. He glances up at the clock and sighs to see it’s just past noon. His hand aches, so he drops his pen down and flexes his fingers, whispers of arthritis and old breaks that never quite healed right insisting the time for rest is now. 

Lunch. Marcus eats leftovers from last night’s dinner at his desk and watches sun paint a pattern on the sidewalk through the window. It’s quiet here, this little town, almost maddeningly so, but he supposes it’s better than the alternative. He clears away his dishes, washes them in his little sink, thinks of returning to his homily when a sudden, single knock at the front door jars Marcus out of his skin.

A demand gone as quickly as it begun, the thud rattles the bones of his little house. Marcus reaches for the crucifix tucked into his pocket on instinct, running his fingers over the metal as he approaches the door with one calculated step after the next. His heart thuds in his chest and his breathing quickens as he reaches for the door knob, turns it, pulls the door open on its creaking hinges.

On his doormat lies a lifeless starling, its wings mangled, its head turned all the way around, and Marcus’ stomach turns at once. In the tree that sits between his home and the church, a mass of the birds roost among the branches, so many of them it would seem there are more birds than leaves. That the branches hold is a miracle. It’s what they do, Marcus reminds himself as the birds begin to screech. It’s what they do and nothing more. 

Marcus gets a towel from the kitchen and uses it to shroud the little bird in his hands, and in the shed behind the church he finds a spade. He buries the starling next to the shed with his stomach twisting into knots. The birds continue their screaming. It’s what they do. It’s what they do. 

Marcus buries his head in his hands, shuts his eyes. “I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust,” he whispers. The starlings scream louder, and the pounding of his heart nearly drowns them out. “Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence.” This is a good place, Marcus reminds himself. A quiet place that brims with absolution, and with his help there will be no more shame to twist and abuse. “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge. His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”

Marcus pulls his hands away from his eyes, reopening them to the day, and the starlings quiet at once. He walks out to the sidewalk, scans up and down the quiet street, left then right. Leaves rustle in the cool breeze, a promise of autumn to come. Mrs. Graham stands out in her yard across the street and gives Marcus a little wave which he returns with a smile, though deep within the dread that knots him burns as surely as the sun above.

—

His hour of absolution sets Marcus right, and as the minutes tick down he finally feels as though he can breathe. “I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Amen. Amen. Amen.

He’s only taken three confessions this evening, but it’s been enough to remind him of his path and pull his mind from the darkness of the past. He makes to stand but the sound of the confessional opening pushes him back down into his seat.

“Bless me, Father,” Tomas’ voice drips sweet as honey, edged in a smile.

“Is this going to become a habit?”

“That depends. Would you like it to be?”

Marcus is unable to contain his smile. “Depends on how many mortal sins you’ve committed these past 24 hours, Father Tomas.”

Tomas leans his head against the partition and sighs hard. “Mentally, I wasn’t present at mass today. My mind wanted to be elsewhere.”

“It’s not a sin to have a bad day,” says Marcus. Tomas is so close, just there, Marcus could lean in so easily and it would be almost as though they were touching. Almost. “Is there something troubling you?”

“Yes, Father, there is.” Tomas’ voice takes on a mischievous air. “I have this friend, you see, and I can’t help but feel that he’s ignoring me. He won’t accept any of my dinner invitations.”

“I have it on good authority that before last night you hadn’t bothered to pay your friend a visit for more than a week.”

“Well, that’s only because he hadn’t visited me.”

“Your friend is very busy, Father Tomas.”

“It’s a sin to not make time for friends.”

Marcus barks out a laugh. “Is that so?”

“It is.” Tomas goes silent and still for a moment before drawling, “Have a drink with me.”

“I…”

“Have an early morning.” 

“Yes.”

“All right.”

Marcus pushes past the choking insistence that he’s doing something wrong and says, “But one drink couldn’t hurt, I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit, my friend.”

Quietly, Tomas exist the confessional, and when Marcus emerges he finds his friend waiting for him, smiling with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His collar off, Tomas comes in the guise of a civilian in jeans and an old t-shirt emblazoned with the Loyola University logo, his hair wild and unkempt. 

“There’s a bar just around the corner if you want to—”

“There’s a six pack in my car,” says Tomas, turning away from Marcus with a smile, and Marcus can’t help but stare, allowing himself the indulgence for a handful of seconds before following Tomas out into the night.

The night is quiet, clear, and cool, and Marcus waits for Tomas on the sidewalk while he fetches the beer from his car. Nearby a dog begins to howl, followed by another, and when a third joins the chorus the dread that Marcus had finally managed to suppress returns cold as a stone sinking in his belly.

“Is everything all right?” Tomas’ voice breaks through Marcus’ fog of terror.

“Fine,” says Marcus, sounding not at all fine as he whips himself around and trudges toward the house. 

Inside, Tomas sets the beer on Marcus’ writing desk, uses the opener on his keyring to crack two open, hands one to Marcus, flops down on Marcus’ bed and rests his head back against the wall as he takes a sip from the longneck bottle. “You know,” he says, “it occurs to me that I don’t know anything about you.”

Still on edge, Marcus flips his desk chair around and settles down in it, gripping his beer with both hands. “What are you talking about?”

“You know so much about me, but I don’t even know where you were before you came here.”

“My life story is a boring one, Tomas. Believe me, I’m sparing you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be spared.”

Marcus takes a long swig from his beer. He knew it was only a matter of time before Tomas grew tired of talking about himself, his past, what happened in Chicago with the husband of his old flame who saw fit to make his life such hell he had no choice but to leave the place he’d called home for so long. Tomas is like this place, brand new and unburdened with the memories of Marcus’ past. The thought of tainting that is enough to turn Marcus’ stomach.

“Something is troubling you,” says Tomas, pulling Marcus from his worrying.

Marcus forces a smile. “Says the one who’s come to me for confession two evenings in a row.”

Tomas gives Marcus an easy, tired smile. “I’m here for you, Marcus,” he says in a way that soothes Marcus’ aching at once. He understands completely why this man was called to the priesthood. His is a heart that was meant to comfort. “No matter what it is.”

“Thank you, Tomas,” Marcus says with his eyes locked on Tomas’ across the space between them.

“You know, I do also hear confession, though perhaps not as frequently as you.”

“I know.”

“And you know where to find me.”

“I do.”

“I’ll pretend I don’t know that it’s you.”

Marcus spits out a laugh, and smiles genuinely then. “I appreciate the offer, Father Tomas.”

Tomas lets the silence pulse between them for a few moments, then asks, “Will you tell me where you were before you came here, at least?”

Marcus gazes down at the bottle gripped in his hands, fidgets with the peeling edge of the label. “All sorts of places.”

“How did you end up in America?”

“Long story,” says Marcus, shooting his gaze up at Tomas on the bed. His covers are going to smell like Tomas tonight, and he can’t say that he hates the idea.

Tomas gives him a look that says he knows he’s getting nowhere with his prying, not tonight, and he makes quick work of the remainder of his beer. “Do you want me to go?” he asks when the beer is finished.

“You don’t have to.”

“You want me to go.”

“That’s not true. I’m just tired.”

Marcus wants him to stay. The gentle presence of this man is as good as absolution for his spirit. Marcus wants him to go. To grow any closer to someone so untainted by the true darkness that lurks just out of sight is dangerous. He’s toed the line with Tomas for six months, and the urge to tumble over into pure intimacy is an apple pressing ever-closer to his lips.

Tomas pulls himself to his feet, tosses his empty bottle into the trash, walks over to Marcus and grips him by the shoulder with one strong, warm hand. Marcus gazes up at Tomas as though the eye of God has opened upon him. It’s a thought that borders on blasphemy, he knows, but one he is helpless to contain. 

“Get some rest, my friend,” says Tomas, squeezing Marcus’ shoulder for good measure before pulling away, letting his eyes linger on Marcus’ for just a moment longer. 

“I’ll walk you out,” says Marcus, almost as an afterthought, too trapped in following Tomas with his eyes toward the door. He’s pulled from his chair like a moth diving headlong into flame.

Walking in silence with Tomas to his car, Marcus wonders if this is what it feels like for spindly-limbed teenagers coming to the end of their first date. He wouldn’t know. Marcus has never been on a date. 

Marcus stands on the curb and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you…”

“Soon,” says Tomas with a little smile and a nod. His gaze lingers, as it is wont to do, and then he is gone, disappearing into his car, then down the road into the dark.

Marcus stands listening to the sounds of the neighborhood, the gentle hum of the night. Gone are the dogs and their howling, leaving little but crickets and the gentlest wind to lull Marcus into some semblance of calm. He tries to feel it, willing it like grace into the cavern of his chest. You’re just being paranoid, old man, he tells himself. Don’t ruin this place for yourself.

His town rests quietly, folded into dark. Marcus walks back to his little house, to the safety of his own four walls, allowing himself to believe this is what will remain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic is going to be an experiment of me just stumbling blindly in the dark and seeing what happens because I have at least 3 separate plot points that I want to go with for this and I can't choose which one is going to work best. I'm just going to keep writing and see what feels right, hence the lack of tags on this thing at the moment. This may remain entirely non-sexual with a hefty dose of unresolved tension between these two, or the rating could go up as I figure out exactly what's happening here. IDK. We'll see.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> St. Sebastian’s is quiet as a tomb after morning mass. Sunlight dances through stained glass, shooting painted arrows through the church and right into Marcus’ hand. He rolls the colors over in his palm, a stigmata of light and air. He lies flat on his back in the first pew, still dressed in his chasuble, the fabric stretching down to the floor like deep violet wings. He’ll hold mass again this evening, then hear confession, then pray for the comfort of a dreamless sleep and crawl into his own bed. His own bed. Two years on, and the concept still doesn’t quite connect.

St. Sebastian’s is quiet as a tomb after morning mass. Sunlight dances through stained glass, shooting painted arrows through the church and right into Marcus’ hand. He rolls the colors over in his palm, a stigmata of light and air. He lies flat on his back in the first pew, still dressed in his chasuble, the fabric stretching down to the floor like deep violet wings. He’ll hold mass again this evening, then hear confession, then pray for the comfort of a dreamless sleep and crawl into his own bed. His own bed. Two years on, and the concept still doesn’t quite connect.

And this, too, is his, he reminds himself. This parish, this church, the congregation of souls who find comfort in his words and in his confessional. Forty years with the Church and he never once allowed himself to believe he deserved such a thing. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it isn’t about deserving it at all. Maybe it’s only an illusion, a rug beneath his feet. More and more, he finds himself bracing for the inevitable pull. The one that sends him flying headlong back into some stinking room, some foul thing breathing down his neck. The snap of bone. A little body gone limp in his arms.

“Father Marcus? Father Marcus?” Marcus doesn’t realize he is dozing until a soft voice pulls him back to reality. “Father Marcus?”

Marcus whips himself upright to see Andy and Rose Kim’s youngest foster child watching him with soft round eyes. “Harper,” he says with great concern. “Where are your parents?”

Harper shrinks in on herself. “They’re at home,” she says.

“C’mere m’duck.” Marcus guides Harper down to sit next to him in the pew. “Walked here all by yourself, did ya?”

Harper gives a little nod. “Just one block.”

“Even so, Andy and Rose’ll be looking for you. I’ll give them a call and—”

Harper grips the fabric of Marcus’ chasuble as he makes to stand. “Father Marcus. There’s something under my bed.”

Dread, slick and cold and sinking turns Marcus’ limbs to lead, heavy and useless, and it’s all he can do to keep his demeanor calm for the child. “What do you mean, love?”

Harper’s pale face is awash in the kind of fear Marcus has only ever seen on the faces of children. One that says they know you’re not going to believe them before they’ve even said a word. “I see it when I sleep. It comes out from under my bed and watches me.”

Marcus lowers himself down to Harper’s level, says, “I believe you.” And when her face softens considerably, he says, “Go on, Harper. What else?”

“I can’t move. It’s so scary, Father Marcus.”

“Have you told your parents?”

She nods. “They think it’s stress. From the move, and the new school. But it feels real.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Marcus’ heart is beating so loud he worries she can hear it. That she can sense the fear spilling from him in waves.

“Do you think it could be a…” She swallows, and Marcus can feel the breath catching in his chest. He is drowning, drowning… “A demon?”

It is only by the grace of God that Marcus keeps his composure. “Where did you hear about demons, Harper?”

“I don’t know,” she says, unwilling to meet Marcus’ eyes, and Marcus very seriously considers for a moment telling her a lie. Demons aren’t real, he could say. Monsters don’t exist. There is nothing lurking in the dark.

Instead he drawls, “Sure you do, little duck,” over the rush of his own pulse. His body shakes with the force of it. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he says, though he is churning with it. Fear is what defines him.

Harper bunches her little hands into fists. “My mom, from before. Before Andy and Rose.” She looks up at Marcus with wet eyes. “She said I had a demon in me. Do you think she was right?”

She could have been. She might be. Little things like you get taken all the time. These are the things Marcus rolls over in his mind. It could be. Possession is a subtle thing at first. He’s never known the possessed to seek help before it’s too late, but there’s a first time for everything. The devil works in mysterious ways. 

“You are a child of God,” he says, taking her gently by the shoulders. “His light and love surround you, Harper.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“If it is a demon, you can get rid of it. Right?”

What’s one little lie to soothe the mind of a troubled child? “I don’t think that it’s a demon, Harper.” Not so much a lie as a hope. An affirmation. The devil is not in this child, let it be so. “Will you do something for me, and then I’ll walk you home?”

Harper nods shyly.

“Good. Just wait here. I won’t be a moment, all right?”

Marcus rushes back to his office with his mind and heart racing in equal measure. He peels off his chasuble, shrugs on his jacket, takes the half-full bottle of water from his desk and empties it in the restroom. He rushes out to the font at the entrance of the church and fills the bottle one quarter of the way and takes it back to Harper.

Marcus kneels at the girl’s feet, offers the bottle. “I only need you to take a little sip, now.”

She takes the offered bottle, presses it to her lips, tips it back, and the water goes down, down… She hands the bottle back to Marcus, looking more than a little confused.

“How do you feel, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did the water taste funny? Do you feel different?”

She shakes her head.

Marcus sighs. “Good. That’s very good. Now how about we get you home?”

It’s not a fool proof test, but Marcus has met few demons who can go for long without showing some sign with the holy water sloshing about inside their host. Marcus leads Harper down the aisle and outside, and the two of them nearly collide with a wide-eyed Andy Kim just outside the entrance of the church.

“Harper.” Andy sighs like a man who’s been holding his breath for too long. He pulls her into his arms. “I was so worried. She was here with you, Father?”

“She was. I was just about to walk her home. I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“Never do that again,” Andy says firmly—but gently—to Harper before pulling her closer.

“I’d like to talk to you if you have a minute, Andy. Your wife, as well.”

“Of course. Yeah. She’s out of her mind searching the other end of the block so I should probably call her.” Andy gives a nervous little laugh. “Do you wanna talk inside, or…”

Harper may not be possessed herself, not yet, but Marcus is still sick with dread. There could be something in the house. Something circling, biding its time. “At your house would be fine,” he says, and to that Andy thankfully agrees.

Andy calls Rose, and they meet up with her halfway between St. Sebastian’s and the Kim residence. The two of them worry over Harper as they walk, and Marcus falls back to quietly observe. Though the girl may not be their blood, their love for her is evident. She’s not been with them four months, but you wouldn’t know it by the way they hold her near. But love is not enough, Marcus knows, to keep the darkness at bay. All too often, love is the thing the darkness twists the most, using it to slip between the cracks and take what it wants.

The residence of Andy and Rose Kim looms over the rest of the houses on the block, a massive Victorian with plenty of room for the two of them and their five foster children. If Marcus’ life were a novel, he would be the unwitting protagonist walking into the home with the terrible secret. The home for which the book is named. The home whose walls have claimed the lives of countless families and whose hunger cannot be contained.

But Marcus’ life is all too real, and he is all too aware of the horrors that four walls and a roof can contain, and he’s stared down the secrets of the dark too many times to count. His worry makes him dizzy, and he is grateful to be ushered inside and sat in a plush armchair and offered tea as Harper is sent away to read beneath the massive oak in the backyard.

“Now, Father, what did you want to talk about?” Andy asks. He and Rose sit opposite Marcus on the sofa, concern knitting their brows together in twin masks.

Marcus holds onto his teacup like a lifeline. “Do you know why Harper snuck out to see me today?”

“Gonna take a shot in the dark and say it was about her nightmares,” says Rose.

“She said she thinks there’s something under her bed. That it watches her when she sleeps.” Marcus sips his tea, tries to keep his jaw from clenching. His palms are sweaty when he returns the cup to its saucer.

“Sleep paralysis,” says Andy. “Common in children suffering from post traumatic stress. Do you know her history, Father?”

“I know she was abused.”

“She was drugged by her mother,” says Rose. “Told she was sick when she wasn’t, told she had something evil inside of her.”

“A demon. She told her own child she had a demon inside her,” Andy chimes in.

 

Marcus can taste the bile rising in his throat. His pulse thumps against his collar. “She’s lucky to have the two of you,” he says.

Andy says, “We’re lucky to have her.” Then, “She went to you because she thinks you can get rid of the monster.”

“Yes.”

Andy laughs. “You don’t really believe in evil spirits though. A bit archaic, even for the Church, or am I mistaken?”

“What I believe doesn’t matter.” Not technically a lie, he supposes. “She believes there’s something there, I assume it’s why she isn’t in school today, because she hasn’t been sleeping. It’ll only get worse if we don’t do something to ease her mind a little.”

“All due respect, Father, but I don’t want to feed into any delusions she might be having,” says Andy.

“Maybe just hear him out,” says Rose. Andy meets her eyes and they share a silent moment. He turns back to Marcus with a look that says he’s listening, if only for the sake of his wife.

“I’m not suggesting anything extreme, just something to put the girl’s mind to rest.” And my own, he thinks.

Andy raises a brow. “Such as?”

“I’ll take a look around, say a prayer or two, give her a crucifix for her room if she doesn’t already have one.”

“You’ve done this before?” Andy asks.

Marcus thinks on his words carefully. He has to get this right. He cannot risk letting an evil run wild in a home with five vulnerable children. “What I do more than anything is provide comfort. I know the two of you may not be believers yourself, but Harper believes in the forces of good and evil in her heart, and she came to me for a reason.”

Andy and Rose share another moment. She nods, reaches for his hand. His face softens, and he asks, “When?” as he turns back to Marcus.

“The sooner the better. I can run back to the church now, get what I need, maybe Harper will be sleeping soundly tonight.”

Marcus thinks: Perhaps I, too, will rest.

“Alright. I guess a prayer or two can’t hurt,” says Andy, and Rose nods her head in agreement.

On his walk back to the church, Marcus’ mind wanders to Tomas, and he wonders how his friend would handle this situation. Someone unmarred by the darkness would know no fear when confronted with the nightmares of a child. He would invoke the Saints—Raphael the Archangel, Dymphna, Giles—and pray for their intercession. He would ask their Lord for guidance. He would never consider that a demon could be lurking, would likely never consider a demon could exist at all. Tomas is young, starry-eyed, blissfully unaware of the old ways of the Church. The old ways that still exist alongside the new, if you’re unlucky enough to be in on that particular dirty little secret.

At the church, Marcus packs a bag with holy water, an aspergil, a crucifix, a rosary, his bible whose pages are more smudges of ink and redaction than the words of the men who presumed to speak for their God. Those words within that do hold some power over the Devil, Marcus knows by heart, but he likes to have it close at times like these. It’s been tucked away in the desk in his office for so long. It has been so long since he’s known times like these.

Before heading back to the Kim home, Marcus kneels in front of the altar and whispers a prayer. _O God, You are the preserver of men, and the keeper of our lives. We commit ourselves to Your perfect care on the journey that awaits us…_

The relic tucked beneath the altar is said to be a finger bone of St. Sebastian himself. A lie, of course, his relics are in Rome, if they’ve indeed survived at all. A lie. Who would send a relic so great to a little church in rural Ohio so forgotten they would dump a useless old exorcist there so that they may wash their hands? A lie, but one he would repeat to congregants to bring them comfort. To allow them to believe they haven’t been forgotten. That this town has not been forgotten. That the evils of the world are held at bay by the intercession of the Saint and the vessel of his body’s benediction. 

A lie. A lie. There is only him, and his will to channel the grace of their Lord. There is only him to push back the dark, and his shaking hands have all but forgotten how to fight.

He walks the single block back to the Kim residence with his bag slung over his shoulder and his collar rubbing harshly against the back of his neck. He does his best to steady himself when he’s ushered back inside, and he kneels down to speak to Harper in the foyer.

“Have they told you what we’re going to do, Harper?”

She nods. Marcus smiles. 

Marcus rises to his feet, his old bones creaking as he turns to Rose and Andy. “You can follow me if you’d like. Harper, too.”

“All right,” says Rose, taking one of Harper’s hands. Andy takes the other, and together they begin their journey through the house.

In each room, Marcus says words he hasn’t uttered since that final day with Gabriel. _We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects._ He splashes holy water with his aspergil because it seems like the thing to do. He’s never blessed a home before. For four decades, he was only invited inside after the darkness had won. He senses nothing here, but he wouldn’t. It’s never worked that way. 

No animals have converged outside their home, no insect infestations. He spies not a single spider web in a single corner of the massive home. He says the Lord’s Prayer in the room Andy says belongs to their eldest boy, Shelby. In the room that belongs to the two younger boys, Truck and Caleb, Marcus mutters a psalm.

_May God arise. May his enemies be scattered. May his foes flee before him. May you blow them away like smoke—_

In the room that Harper shares with their eldest girl, Verity, Marcus places the crucifix on Harper’s bedside table and presses the rosary into her hands. He considers teaching her how to use it properly, but it feels like a bit too much for a frightened child who hasn’t slept properly in God knows how long. He settles on saying, “This’ll keep you safe,” and it sounds good enough. Not a lie, a hope. Let it keep her safe. Let it keep her.

Dread still sits like a stone in his belly, even as he says a final prayer with Harper there in her room, and says goodbye, and promises to answer her calls day or night if she is frightened and needs someone to talk to.

“Might make her feel a bit safer to take communion,” Marcus says to Rose and Andy as they walk him to the door. “But she’ll have to be baptized first.”

“We’ll think about,” says Rose, before Andy can say whatever is sitting on the tip of his tongue. He’s a good man, Marcus knows, but the opposite of a believer. They’ve talked only a handful of times, when Andy and Rose have accompanied Shelby and Harper to Sunday mass, and Andy Kim believes too firmly in the God of science and logic to be fearful of the night. Marcus wonders if it’s better that way. No hell, no heaven. Only now. Only that which we can see.

Marcus walks back to St. Sebastian’s, to his little home, gripping the strap of his bag so tight it cuts painfully into his palm. The wind picks up and sends a chill straight through his clothes, rattling his bones, and Marcus decides that he feels no better now than he did before walking into the Kim home and splashing some water around. He may have put the girl’s mind at ease, but not his own. All he can do now is wait and pray, pray and wait. If there’s something in that house, it’s only a matter of time before it makes itself known.

Marcus walks back into St. Sebastian’s with a heavy sigh. There’s someone sitting in a middle pew, their back turned and head bowed. The last thing he needs right now is one more person seeking comfort. He needs the afternoon to recharge before evening mass and penance. He’s got to get his head right before he’s able to—

Tomas spins around and greets Marcus with a little smile, rising to meet him in the aisle, and Marcus can feel the weight of his own reluctance leaving him at once. Marcus tosses his bag down in a pew and greets Tomas with a clap on the shoulder, and a smile larger than he knew he was capable of given the circumstances.

“It’s good to see you, my friend.” 

Tomas asks, “Have you eaten?” and when Marcus says that he hasn’t, Tomas frowns and says, “You’re coming home with me, and I’m making you lunch,” and Marcus is powerless to resist the invitation. Tomas’ easy smile and the way he slings his arm around Marcus’ shoulder and walks them back out into the day is as good a pull toward relief as any.

They climb into Tomas’ sedan that might be older than he is. It sputters when it starts, and Marcus thinks absently, I know the feeling. Tomas has taken his vow of poverty to heart. Eighties hair metal buzzes from the radio and Tomas shoots Marcus a smile that says he knows the words that are about to come out of his mouth.

“I don’t know how you listen to this rubbish,” Marcus teases, feeling lighter than he has all day.

Tomas barks out a laugh, turns the music louder, and sputters on down the road.

—

Tomas’ apartment occupies the upper level of his church—St. Stephen’s—and carries with it the air of something calmer. Perhaps it’s the decor, thrift store finds and things that Tomas brought back with him from his childhood in Mexico. It feels more like a home than Marcus’ sparsely decorated shack. Or perhaps it’s Tomas himself, bringing Marcus a steaming mug of coffee and ordering him to relax on the couch while Tomas busies himself making them both sandwiches in the little nook that passes for his kitchen.

“Now,” says Tomas, pushing a plate into Marcus’ hands and settling in beside him, “you’re going to eat this, and then you’re going to tell me what happened today to put that look on your face.”

“And what look would that be exactly?”

“You walked into your church looking like you’d just seen a ghost.”

“It’s—”

“A long story?”

Marcus has to smile. Here is this man, feeling for the latch on the door Marcus has kept barricaded for so long, unafraid of the beasts howling within. “Something like that,” says Marcus.

“Well,” says Tomas, taking a bite of his sandwich, sighing, chewing, smiling. “I’m free until this evening, and I would guess you are as well. Plenty of time for a long story.”

They finish their lunch. With his plate clean Marcus feels no more certain how he could possibly explain his fear without explaining his past than he did when he started. Tomas takes the plate from him, sets it down on the coffee table, turns to Marcus with an open expression that says he’s listening.

“A little girl in my parish came to see me this morning after mass,” Marcus begins. “Said there was a monster under her bed. Something watching her in her sleep.”

Tomas smiles. He finds this story whimsical. He would, of course. In the world of Tomas Ortega, monsters do not exist. “My nephew had nightmares for months when he and Olivia followed me here from Chicago.”

“This girl’s new here as well. Living with a foster family, good people, much better than where she came from.”

“And she came to you thinking you could get rid of the monster?”

“Yes.”

Tomas is still smiling. “And did you?”

“I, uh, said a few prayers around the house. Gave her a rosary. Put her mind at ease. Her father seems to think it’s sleep paralysis and it will pass.”

“You don’t believe him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s written all over your face, hermano.”

“I just wish there was more I could do.”

“You should feel better, for putting the girl’s mind at ease. She came to you for help, and you provided it. It’s what we’re here for.”

“Yeah,” says Marcus, sighing and sinking back into the sofa. 

Tomas grips his shoulder, and a grounding warmth sinks down through Marcus’ shirt, into his flesh, his bones, something deeper. “Whatever it is that’s burdening you, Marcus, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

“I’m not burdened, Tomas, I’m just…” Terrified that a demon is going to possess a young girl in my parish. “It’s hard to put into words.”

Tomas pulls his hand away, nods, gets lost inside his own thoughts for a moment. “You know, when I first moved to this town I was terrified. It was so different from Chicago. The way the people looked at me… I could tell they didn’t know how to feel about their priest being Mexican-American. Rural Ohio isn’t always the most tolerant of places.”

Marcus is uncertain what to say. He settles for, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. The parishioners who decided to stay at St. Stephen’s have opened their hearts to me. I may never be able to erase that prejudice, but I can try. Many in the Church preach intolerance, I think that’s what they were used to, but they know now that they won’t get that from me.”

“The Church is full to the brim with hypocrites, that’s for certain.”

Tomas pulls Marcus’ gaze in with a laser focus, his eyes deep wells of sincerity. “I’m not one of them, Marcus. Whatever it is, I’m not going to judge you. I am always going to be your friend.”

“It’s not that, Tomas, it’s… I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“You begin where you need to.” Tomas’ hand it back, gripping Marcus’ arm, strong and firm and sure. “It hurts me to see you this way.”

“I’m not trying to hurt ya.”

“I know.”

“I just need some time.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you for lunch, by the way.” Marcus smiles with wet eyes. He rubs at them and wills the tears away. 

Tomas is close enough for their knees to touch. His hand has drawn back into his own lap, but his presence warms Marcus all the same. “Any time. You know that.” 

They sit together for another handful of seconds before Tomas pulls away, takes their plates to the sink, cleans the mess he’s made. Marcus can see him from where he sits on the sofa, washing the plates, drying them, putting them away. He’s been here before, in this place with this man after lunch watching him in his kitchen, but now something has shifted. Beneath him, Marcus can feel the ground cleaving open. The barricade at his door has begun to fall away.

And he is, all at once, terrified and content. Hopeful and sick with worry. Thinking of fleeing and desperate to stay, to hold onto this moment, this feeling. Tomas moves around his little kitchen in a practiced dance. Marcus allows himself a moment to savor it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I added a few more tags to this, and I'm feeling a lot more certain where this is going now than I did after chapter one, but still a bit uncertain on what the final chapter count will be. I just never know with these boys and their Feelings, and there are certain to be lots of them in the coming chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At hour’s end Marcus finds himself sitting alone in the quiet confessional in the quiet church in the quiet town that may or may not be crawling with demons. What is he waiting for? He doesn’t have to wonder. Just a minute more, two, three…

Marcus wakes with a start. 

A hand clasped around his shoulder shakes him gently. His eyes shoot open. Where is he? Panic sets in for a fraction of a second before Tomas’ soft face comes into view. 

He sighs. Right. Of course. Of course.

When had he fallen asleep? One minute he and Tomas were stretched out on opposite ends of the sofa, talking about nothing in particular—the weather, their latest homilies, why Tomas chooses to listen to such rubbish music—and the next the world had gone fuzzy around the edges. Then, the dark. So much dark, and dreams that were blank and shapeless.

“Time to go, hermano,” says Tomas. “Unless you’re planning on joining me for mass this evening.” He smiles, pulling his jacket on. “You know, I could use a eucharistic minister. Or another altar boy. Or—”

“All right, all right,” Marcus mumbles, pulling his aching body up from the sofa. There’s a groan that might be the sofa, but is far more likely his bones, 53 years of exhaustion catching up with him. He ignores it in favor of tracing the line of Tomas’ smile with his eyes, and like a disciple follows him toward the door.

In the car Marcus says, “You should have woken me sooner.”

Tomas laughs and says, “But you looked so peaceful.”

And Tomas is smiling—beaming, really—glancing over at Marcus with a smirk that tugs at his heart, and lower, his belly fluttering with something Marcus might call butterflies were he forty years younger. It’s not a sin to enjoy the company of a friend, Marcus reminds himself. It’s not a sin. It’s not a sin. It’s not—

“I’ll see you later, then,” says Tomas, pulling up to Marcus’ little house, which they are suddenly idling in front of.

Marcus blinks. “Yeah, uh—” He laughs a little, shaking the fog from his mind. “Of course.”

Of course.

Tomas leaves Marcus with a smile and a clap on the shoulder, and as Marcus stands on the curb watching the car pull away, the horror of his morning is the furthest thing from his mind. The evening sky glows of autumn gold, pink at its edges with the promise of the setting sun. Tomas’ car disappears around the corner, and Marcus stands listening until he can hear the sputtering engine no more.

—

Evening mass. Incense smoke. Glory to God. Homily. Holy, Holy, Holy. Host after host cradled in cupped palms. 

_Ite, missa est._

Penance comes and goes with a single penitent rattling off a slew of venial sins, but Marcus still manages to find his peace in the act of absolution. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee, and I detest all my sins.

I absolve you. I absolve you.

At hour’s end Marcus finds himself sitting alone in the quiet confessional in the quiet church in the quiet town that may or may not be crawling with demons. What is he waiting for? He doesn’t have to wonder. Just a minute more, two, three…

The sound of another person slipping into the confessional is a balm to Marcus’ soul. “I’ve been thinking, “ says Tomas, his words dripping with the surety of his smile.

“Broadly speaking,” says Marcus, “that’s not necessarily a sin.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Tomas repeats playfully, “and I think I’ve found a solution to our problem.”

“And what problem would that be exactly?”

“These confessionals are nice, aren’t they?” Tomas laughs. “Like the world outside doesn’t exist while you’re inside your little box.”

“Tomas—”

“I’m getting there, just let me… We can say anything in here, you know. And no one outside is allowed to know. We don’t have to fear our secrets getting out.”

“Generally I’m the one hearing the secrets, Father Tomas.”

“We have that in common. I don’t put myself on the other side for just anyone, you know.”

Marcus has to shut his eyes and reflect on that. It’s not like it’s some revelation, but something in Tomas’ tone weakens Marcus to the marrow. He’s grateful to be sitting. “You don’t come here seeking absolution, Tomas, don’t kid yourself,” he says, because if he doesn’t say something he’s going to drown in the wandering of his own thoughts.

“Still, I’m here. And I want to confess. Not a sin, but a secret.”

“Secrets can be sins.”

“They can be. But I want to tell you one of mine. It’s not a sin. I don’t think.” He laughs, a beautiful sound. The most beautiful sound, perhaps. “And maybe when I’m finished,” Tomas continues, “you’ll… feel more comfortable sharing one of yours.”

Marcus sighs. “I don’t have—”

“Lying is definitely a sin, Father Marcus.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Something that you feel comfortable sharing with a friend. With me. I am right here, hermano.” A beat of silence passes between them and Tomas says, “For the record, almost anything about your life before we met could be considered a secret in this case.”

Tomas is laughing, and Marcus is laughing, and then silence creeps in like a fog in the confessional. 

“All right,” says Marcus, so quietly Tomas might not hear it. Marcus clutches his rosary in his hand but he doesn’t remember pulling it from his pocket. He clings to it as though it might be the only thing that anchors him to the earth, pressing his thumb all along the medal, running the beads through his fingers in unspoken prayer.

“I have been walking around with a tremendous amount of guilt,” Tomas begins, his playful tone now gone. “About my sister, and my nephew. Bringing them here. They never would have left their home if it weren’t for me.”

_Oh._ Marcus’ heart sinks, aching for his friend. “Tomas, you didn’t force them to do anything.”

“No, I did. I have done my penance for my sins but… they were my sins. Not theirs. Olivia and I, we didn’t grow up together but as adults we have grown so close. And Luis, his father left when he was just an infant. They felt they had to follow me, and I didn’t try to stop them.”

Marcus winds the rosary in his hand. How terribly he wishes to reach through the partition between them and comfort his friend. To pull him into his arms and whisper comfort into his skin. To draw the hair at Tomas’ nape through his fingers like beads, counting prayers until they both are still. Instead he says, “Keeping your family together is a good thing. They would have missed you terribly had you left them behind.”

“I know,” Tomas all but whispers through the screen, as so many sins have been whispered before. “But still, it is my secret shame.”

For the first time in all his time spent in this confessional, Marcus finds himself at a loss for words. And this is why confession is meant to be anonymous, he thinks. No attachment to the penitent, only objective counsel and holy words and absolution. With an aching in his chest Marcus says, “Perhaps you should talk to your sister about how you feel, Father Tomas.”

Tomas says, “I will not burden her anymore than I already have. She won’t go back to Chicago without me, so there is no point in telling her how I feel.”

“Has telling me about it eased your mind a little, at least?”

“You always ease my mind,” Tomas says quietly, like this too is a secret, but not one for which he is ashamed. It’s an exhale passed between them. A hand reaching in to cradle Marcus’ heart.

“I’m glad,” Marcus replies, gently, so gently the words don’t feel like words at all. A kiss, softly, to the air, and passed onward to Tomas on the other side.

“But do you know what would really ease my mind?” The playful tone has returned to Tomas’ voice. “If I knew something more about you…”

Marcus laughs softly. “Emotional manipulation is absolutely a sin.” 

“But you did agree, Father Marcus, and I have it on good authority that not holding up your end of an agreement is a mortal sin.”

Marcus tries to recall the last time he attended confession as a penitent. It’s been so long. At St. Aquinas? Perhaps, though his months spent there blur into a shapeless fog the further in time he moves from it. Though this isn’t confession, he supposes. A conversation with a friend, nothing more. He doesn’t have to dig too deep. He doesn’t have to get too close.

“I was a smoker, uh, for a long time,” Marcus says after careful consideration of his words. “Used to smoke a pack a day. Cloves. Same ones I’d been smoking since I was a boy. Gave ‘em up for lent the year I moved here and I guess it stuck. Used to be the only thing that gave me any pleasure at all.”

“I’m glad that you quit. A terrible habit.” Tomas pauses for a second, then asks, “And what gives you pleasure now?”

“This,” Marcus blurts out, realizing instantly how it sounds. And maybe he means it just that way. Oh, he knows that he does. This. This. This. Being near to you, Tomas. Talking with you. Feeling your hand on my shoulder. A blush creeps onto his cheeks and he continues, “Uh, confession I mean. Providing absolution.”

“Why do you like it so much?”

“You’re a priest. Do I really need to explain it to you?”

“I don’t hear confession every day, Father Marcus.”

Marcus’ palms begin to sweat and the rosary slips in his hands. He shoves it roughly into his pocket and wipes his hands down the front of his pants. “This isn’t what we’re here to discuss, Tomas,” he says, perhaps a bit more snippy than he intended.

“We’re just talking, Marcus,” says Tomas, his tone both soothing and tinged with confusion.

“I’m—I’m sorry, I, uh. Can we just—” Marcus’ heart is hammering in his chest at once and the tension in his neck is dizzying. Too close. Too close. If I explain it to you, certainly you’ll know the truth of what I am. Of what I used to be. He shuts his eyes, clasps his hands as if to pray but the prayers never come. “Can you tell me something else,” Marcus chokes out. “Something else. Something, anything.”

“Marcus.” Tomas’ voice comes closer, his lips pressed as close to the screen as he can manage. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he lies. “I’m fine. Just. Please. Talk to me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right, all right. Let’s see— _Oh_!” Tomas laughs. “I tried smoking once. In high school. My abuela wasn’t very happy to say the least.”

Against the frantic beating of his own heart, Marcus smiles. He can see it so clearly, Tomas soft-faced and lithe, his spindly fingers pressing that forbidden fruit to his lips, the coughing fit that surely followed. “She smelled it on you,” Marcus says, huffing out a little laugh.

“She did. And I prayed that night until my knees ached, though the look of disappointment on her face was enough to guarantee I never tried it again.”

“Your great teenage rebellion, was it?”

“Something like that,” Tomas says, and after a moment of silence he offers, “I’ll go now, if you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to,” says Marcus, calmer now, his heart no longer rattling his chest like a beast aching to break free. “I’m sorry, Tomas. I—” He sighs, searching for something more to offer. Something, anything. “I draw, you know. Well, I used to. Haven’t done it much lately. Haven’t had much use for it, I suppose.”

“What did you like to draw?”

“Everything. Nothing. Sometimes my hand would move like—” Like it were possessed, he thinks. No, Marcus, don’t say the word. Don’t think it. “Like it wasn’t my hand at all.”

His room at St. Aquinas was covered floor-to-ceiling with black-smudged drawings by the time they sent him away. Shapes that raced behind his eyes in the night, the ghosts of wilted flowers. Shadows, so many of them, haunting just beneath the dome of his skull. Nightmares made manifest, the beauty of dreams twisted into monstrous forms beneath his fingers.

“Maybe you’ll show me sometime,” Tomas says, no insistence in his tone. It is a hope, a dream, a wish breathed into existence.

All Marcus has left is his bible, and the thought of showing such a private piece of himself and the twisted limbs of his past to Tomas nearly sets Marcus’ heart racing again. He pushes it down, says, “Maybe,” and Tomas seems content for that to be the end of it for now.

Tomas asks, “Will you pray with me, Father Marcus?”

Marcus replies, “Of course.”

Tomas begins, “Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace,” and together they recite the prayer of Saint Francis.

_Where there is hatred, let me sow love. Where there is injury, pardon. Where there is doubt, faith. Where there is despair, hope. Where there is darkness, light._

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Father Marcus,” Tomas says when they’re through. A promise. An assurance. Gentle as it is terrifying, for tomorrow will certainly dig deeper than the shallow glance this evening has allowed.

“Goodnight, Father Tomas,” Marcus breathes out, resting his head against the partition, shutting his eyes at the sounds of Tomas’ swift exist. His footsteps echo through the church and then they are gone.

Marcus slips from the confessional, into the dimly lit nave, to the back of the church and into his office. He pulls his bible from his bag, still tucked there from the trip to the Kim home this morning. The morning that now feels another lifetime ago. This day has taken his emotions from one extreme to the next, from terror to love. From the ghosts of his past to the gentle company of his present. Doubt and faith. Despair and hope. Darkness and light.

Marcus clicks on his desk lamp and settles in. He digs out a pencil, leafs through the bible until he finds a page that hasn’t been entirely covered in inky-black shapes and blood-red redaction. Song of songs. _Set me as a seal upon your heart._ The lines come to him organically, but not as they have come to him before. This is not a nightmare spilling out, or a frantic redaction of the false words of man. No, this is a dream shaping itself for the waking world. The one waking dream he has allowed himself.

Tomas’ features come to life on the page, though he can’t quite capture the curve of his jaw from memory. Perhaps, one day, Tomas will sit for him. Perhaps, one day, Marcus will have the nerve to ask. 

Marcus leaves it unfinished, a single eye, a partial brow, a thin slip of a nose. Half a face fading out into a declaration that love is as strong as death. 

—

That night, Marcus dreams of the Baptist, the roar of his foul words spilling from Gabriel’s little mouth. He’s had this dream before, but it’s different now. Gabriel’s body is strapped to a rusted bed in the middle of St. Stephen’s church—Tomas’ church—all the pews pushed into a splintered heap where the altar should be. Tomas stands at the bedside, whipping an aspergil and shouting a prayer in Latin. The holy water sizzles as it splashes against Gabriel’s skin. Tomas is methodical in his movements, robotic, as though he’s being guided by some invisible hand.

Gabriel’s head whips to one side, his eyes falling on Marcus. “I’ll have him,” Baptist growls. “I’ll have them all.”

Gabriel shoots up from the bed. The dream shifts. Tomas is on the bed now, and they are in Marcus’ home, the room stinking of weeks on end without air. The windows are boarded over and sharp slats of white sun cut in to fall across Tomas’ prone form. In his hand, Marcus holds a collar. Tomas’ collar, tattered and spattered with blood.

And no matter how he tries, Marcus cannot lift his feet from the floor, cannot run to Tomas’ side. Tomas howls, demonic, his face twisted and broken open. Bloodied and bruised and sunken. He pulls desperately at his restraints. “Help me, Marcus! Help me!”

Marcus stands helpless, a sunken stone, unable to shut his eyes or look away. In his ear, a continuous whisper. _I’ll have him. I’ll have him. I’ll have him._

Tomas cries for Marcus on the bed. “Help me, Marcus. Help me. Help me. Help me.”

Marcus bolts upright in bed with a gasp, his pulse pounding in his ears, blood rushing so quickly he can all but taste it. His hands bunch in the sheets beneath him, the fabric soaked through with sweat. He flings the covers back and races to the kitchen for a glass of water, chugging it down and gripping the edge of the sink when he’s through, lungs still gasping for air.

Marcus sinks to the floor, buries his head in his hands, and weeps away the terror of his dream. There in the dark, he swears he can smell the stink of the nightmare room, can hear Tomas’ cries for help as clear as his own racing thoughts. And through the walls of the little house, every sound of every creature of the night creeps in. Dogs howl, cats screech, crickets sing out a tune so loud it soon grows deafening. 

All around, he is surrounded. By the night, the dark, his own thoughts, the terror growing that may be real or may be imagined, but the difference doesn’t seem to matter at all to his own racing heart, his trembling limbs. The past is like a fog rolling in, and all at once he is drowning in it.

He was a fool to think that running from the Devil meant that for him the Devil would cease to exist. That bringing peace to the souls of a little town would spare them somehow. Running from the Devil only means that you know how to run. But the Devil has legs, too, and sooner or later, he’s going to find you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to tack on a little Tomas POV interlude as chapter four, and chapter five should hopefully be up by next weekend. Thank you to everyone for your kind words and comments. As always, they mean the world to me. <3


	4. interlude

Tomas has dinner with Olivia and Luis. He tells them goodnight. He locks the door. He washes the dishes and puts them away. He brushes his teeth and says his evening prayers.

He crawls into bed thinking only of Marcus. How he worries for his friend. What has he done? Where has he been that’s so terrible he feels he cannot share it Tomas after all these months of friendship?

It doesn’t matter, Tomas knows. It doesn’t matter what it is. There is no sin that cannot be forgiven. No life that cannot be amended for the better. There is nothing that Marcus can say or do to make Tomas admire him any less.

The ache to know him is some gnawing thing, comparable only to those first blissful months at Loyola with Jessica, but so much deeper somehow, made worse by the knowledge that for them, this is it. Shared memories and conversations of their separate pasts. This is all they may ever have.

But it can be enough for Tomas, he thinks. Enough to know him, every darkened corner, every last bit of his beautiful mind. To know Marcus in that way could be the deepest of intimacies without sin. His friend, his brother in Christ, his—

Tomas clicks off the light and pulls the covers to his chin. He shuts his eyes and says one final prayer—that tonight, Marcus’ dreams may come so easy and so sweet.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One beer turns into two turns into three turns into—

Marcus forgets morning mass as soon as it’s ended. _Ite, missa est._ He may have not been present at all, floating instead somewhere next to his own body, recalling his night spent on the kitchen floor. After the nightmare, sleep was a lost cause. He spent a good portion of the time cradling his phone in his hand and thinking of calling Tomas, deciding in the end it would be selfish to wake him.

And even if he’d managed to convince himself it wouldn’t be, what would he have said? Come to me, Tomas. Come to me. Chase the monsters away. I had a dream about a demon. I had a dream you were a demon. I had a dream the demons had taken you away from me. You, the softest thing I’ve ever known. The only one I’ve ever—

Just before noon, Marcus strips off his collar, shrugs on his old leather jacket, and walks to the bar around the corner. This time of the day the bar is empty save for the town drunks, and Marcus is grateful to order a beer and slump down in a corner booth with no one around to notice their priest falling apart in the middle of the day.

One beer turns into two turns into three turns into—

Marcus’ head is spinning by the fourth? Fifth? That sounds right. He can’t recall the last time he’d had more than one before calling it a night. But, he supposes, this isn’t a night at all. It’s the middle of the day in his little parish. Who thought it was a good idea to give a washed-up old exorcist such a thing? He groans at the country music droning from the jukebox and ambles to the bar for something stronger. The tune buzzes around his skull like a fly in search of some soft place to burrow. If only this were the time of day and the sort of place to give him some lonely singer on a stage strumming chords along the strings of his rib cage. If only. If only.

His phone buzzes in his pocket just as Marcus slumps back down at his booth with his whisky, and his useless fingers struggle to fish it out. He fumbles with it, nearly dropping it several times before managing to click it on. A text from Tomas. Marcus’ belly fills with a familiar feeling.

_Where are you?_

Not the usual from Tomas, though lately the usual from him has been anything but. Before the confessional drop-ins began it was lunch once a week, church picnics, fundraisers, the occasional phone call a bit too late at night that he might call flirtation if he didn’t know better. A beer now and then. Friendly conversation, always about Tomas could Marcus manage to push it there. If not, always about the present. Always something light. 

_where r u?_ Marcus pecks back, already knowing the answer. Tomas wouldn’t be asking if he hadn’t gone looking.

_St. Sebastian’s. You’re not here._ Then, _Tell me where you are._

Marcus’ pulse quickens. He wants to see Tomas so badly it aches, but he’s drunker than planned, drunker than a good, upstanding man of God should be at such an hour, if at all. He could lie, but his fingers are pecking out the truth faster than his foggy mind can tame them.

_round the corner. bar._

Marcus regrets the words as soon as he sends them. He can’t see Tomas now, not like this, not when his tongue feels like lead behind his teeth and his blood rushes the drunken stupor ever-quicker to his brain. Marcus watches his phone for a response and when it doesn’t come he watches the door and anxiously sips his whisky, knowing he should switch to water, but the nerves have mixed with the alcohol and turned his legs to useless deadweight beneath the table.

And when Tomas walks in, eyes darting around the bar in search of his friend, his collar gone and his black shirt unbuttoned at the throat, Marcus can feel the pull of him through the buzzing distance between them. Tomas’ eyes fall on Marcus then, he smiles, moving his body from the door toward the corner booth, and the world around them for those handful of seconds seems to slow until it’s scarcely moving at all.

Tomas slides into the booth across from Marcus, still smiling, and his lips are moving and words are falling out but Marcus hears none of them, the blood rushing in his ears so loudly it’s the only sound in the world. Marcus thinks his own face might be smiling, it feels how the shape of a smile might feel on a face more equipped to register such things. He laughs, downs the last of his whisky, and Tomas’ words manage to break through the static.

Tomas’ brows are knitted together, his face no longer smiling. “You’re drunk.”

Marcus is uncertain if he can even use his tongue. He gives it a shot, and the words that come out sound something like, “That’s real crackerjack work, detective.”

Tomas is still frowning. “Tell me what happened.”

Marcus scoffs, slumping into the nook where the booth meets the wall. “Nothing happened. Can’t a man have a drink, Father Tomas?”

“You’re not just a man, Father Marcus, and by the looks of it you’ve had much more than one.”

Marcus scoffs again. He stares at Tomas through his hooded eyes. God was having a very good day when he made Tomas, all chiseled and soft and bright. Lithe and strong. Solid muscle hidden beneath the illusion of his vestments. He is beauty in the truest sense of the word. Marcus wants to tell him this, but somewhere in his inebriated brain he has the good sense to be reminded that saying such a thing out loud is ill advised at best. He settles on, “Have one with me, Father. Live a little.”

Tomas says only, “I’m getting you water,” and disappears briefly before plopping a glass down in front of Marcus and eyeing him until he takes a drink.

“You’re no fun,” Marcus mumbles.

“Tell me what happened,” Tomas says again, softer at the edges this time, more a plea than a request. It is so very hard to say no to him. How can anyone say no to him? Tomas is temptation incarnate as much as he is truth and life. Marcus thinks sometimes that he would give him anything if only he would ask.

Marcus looks at Tomas, picturing how the two of them must look from the outside looking in. Not two priests in this place, just two men. Two friends. Two ordinary people leaning in just a bit too close. Marcus would like to see his own face as he sees Tomas. Does his expression betray the thoughts that rattle through his mind? Do his eyes give him away? If he could see himself through Tomas’ eyes...

Two ordinary men without collars sitting in a hole-in-the-wall a bit too early in the afternoon leaning in a bit too close. One drunk, one sober. One open, one closed. One hopelessly, blissfully in lo—

“Nothing happened. Had a bad night,” says Marcus gripping his glass of water like a lifeline, gazing down into it as though at the bottom he may find some truth, some excuse to not do this here and now. A road back to ordinary. Easy conversation. Friendship at a distance. A gnawing, familiar ache.

“You didn’t sleep well?”

“No.”

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

“Close your eyes.”

Marcus gazes up from the water, incredulous. “What?”

“Close your eyes,” Tomas repeats. “Pretend we’re in the confessional.”

“Better music in there, wouldn’t you say?”

Tomas smiles. “Ignore it. Close your eyes.”

This is a dangerous game, honesty coursing through Marcus’ veins as surely as his blood. His tongue is not to be trusted. But Tomas is gazing at him so sweetly, he is impossible to refuse, so Marcus lets his eyes drift shut, and the sweetness of the sight before him fades into darkness.

“Good,” says Tomas. “Now tell me about your dream.”

Marcus does his best to block out the music and the nagging presence of the bar around them. He focuses on Tomas across from him, pretends he can hear his breathing above the noise. “Something, uh. Something terrible happened to someone that I lo—someone that I care about. They were being hurt.”

“Who was hurting them?”

“Someone that I used to know.”

“Another friend?”

“Not exactly.”

“Have you had this dream before?”

“Not like this. Never like this.”

“It frightened you.”

“Yes.” Marcus’ voice is barely above a whisper. Can Tomas even hear him now?

“It was just a dream, Marcus.”

“Some dreams are—”

“It was just a dream.”

“No,” Marcus says so softly he barely registers the word himself. He flinches when something nudges against his hand. Opening his eyes, he sees that Tomas has reached across the distance to cover Marcus’ hand with his own.

“Are you afraid this dream will come true?”

What must they look like now? Marcus wants to snatch his hand away but he’s been captured in Tomas’ eyes, frozen in the flow of the moment. “It was just a dream,” he manages, a mantra he wishes he could make himself believe. 

If only. If only.

Tomas gives his hand a squeeze, and Marcus’ trance is broken. He has to look down to take in the sight of the contact between them. It looks perfect, Marcus thinks, as perfect as something human can be. Their hands fit together like missing pieces reunited. Two halves of a whole clicking into place before the last dregs of hope can be lost.

“Let’s get you home,” Tomas says, gently taking his hand away, and just as gently he rises, goes to Marcus, helps him to his feet, helps him to the bar to pay his tab, helps him outside and back into the light of day.

Helps him into the passenger seat of his old car. Marcus leans back into the seat, his head lolling to one side, his eyes not leaving Tomas as they drive the short distance home.

—

Marcus sits on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, listening to the sound of Tomas rooting around in Marcus’ medicine cabinet. The sound of pill bottles tumbling into the sink. Tomas whispering under his breath in spanish. 

Tomas emerges from the bathroom, crosses to the kitchen, fills a glass of water, pushes the glass and two tablets of aspirin into Marcus’ hands. “Take them. Drink.”

“Yes, Father,” Marcus teases. His head has already begun to throb. He pops the aspirin into his mouth and drinks the water.

Tomas settles down on the bed beside Marcus and sighs. “You need to rest,” he says, gently gripping Marcus’ nape, the sudden contact a livewire to Marcus’ nerves.

Tomas digs his fingers in soothingly, gently, drawing a new heat to the surface of Marcus’ skin. Marcus feels drunker and entirely sober all at once. His pulse pounds like a drum in his neck. He shuts his eyes and lets the heat wash over him in waves. “I know. I know,” he says.

“Lie down. Come on.”

Tomas pulls away, and Marcus shuffles his body up onto the bed, stretches out and covers his eyes with his forearm. His pulse continues to throb and his head spins. There comes a tugging at his feet—Tomas unlacing Marcus’ shoes and pulling them off, gently setting them down at the side of the bed. It’s an act so intimate that were Marcus sober, God knows how his body would betray him. Tomas gives Marcus’ ankle a rub before pulling away, but the heat of it long after remains.

From under the bed Tomas fishes out a spare blanket, covers Marcus with it, tucks it all the way up to his neck. Marcus uncovers his eyes and gazes up at the softness of this blessed man. Light from the windows splashes in, circles Tomas from behind like a makeshift halo. An illusion, a flash, but the reality of it laid bare all the same.

Tomas would make a fine saint, Marcus thinks, as he watches his friend clasp his hands and whisper a prayer into the space between his fingers. God’s side is where he belongs, unfurling prayers to the divine, granting miracles to those who would beg his intercession. Tomas would make a fine martyr, blood for blood, so certain in his faith he would walk gently into death with a smile upon his radiant face.

Tomas would make a fine exorcist—

No. No. Marcus shuts down the thought and purges it from his mind. He focuses on Tomas’ face, the soft bow of his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble of his cheeks. How easy it would be to reach out for him, bunch a hand in Tomas’ shirt, loop a finger in his belt, hook an arm at his waist and draw him in. Draw him down, drawn him in. Pull him closer, closer, closer. Pull their bodies flush together and—

Tomas finishes his prayer and reaches down a hand to swipe along Marcus’ brow. “Get some rest,” he says. “I’ll be back in a few hours to check on you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’ll be back,” Tomas repeats, and Marcus sighs, nods his agreement, shuts his eyes.

Tomas pulls away, and Marcus feels the ebb of his presence all the way to the door. The door clicks shut. Marcus is alone. Alone with his racing thoughts and racing heart. With his dreadful mind that seems to want nothing more than to wander into darkness or sin. Marcus breathes deeply in, out, in. In, out, in...

The prospect of sleep is terrifying, but it has become all too strong a temptation with alcohol mingling with exhaustion in his veins, so he lets sleep come to him. He lets it come. Tomas’ warmth surrounds him, the light of a living saint. The light of God. The light of his hands. The light of—

He lets it come for him. He lets it come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that thing with the shoes was a reference to Dyer and Karras from the book, and I'm so happy that this chapter allowed me to stumble into it because I've been wanting that scene to exist between Marcus and Tomas for a very long time. Chapter six coming soon. Probably next weekend. Pray4me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks of Marcus. He watches the clock.

Tomas walks across the short path between Marcus’ little house and St. Sebastian’s church. He pushes inside, lights a candle, says another prayer there alone in the nave. 

_Lord, Your servant, Father Marcus, is hurting. I ask of You, My God, who is all good and deserving of our love, to bring him comfort in his hour of grief. Allow me to bring him comfort through my humblest and most human means. Allow me to know his pain as you have allowed me to know my own._

_Amen._

Tomas has asked to bring comfort to so many over the years, and there have been failures in abundance alongside his successes. All these months later, he still can’t say which category Jessica would fall into. He had brought her comfort indeed, had been there when she was feeling so lost, so alone, but in doing so he’d dragged her headlong into the depths of sin.

Together they had found comfort. Together they had found sin.

Together they had found devastation, and any comfort that might have been was quickly forgotten when her husband, Jim, found out. And when Jim wouldn’t forget even after Tomas had pledged to see Jessica no more. To do his penance. To remember the vows he had taken. 

The phone calls, the emails, the texts. The scene Jim had made at Sunday mass, exposing Tomas as a fraud to his congregants. They would have forgiven him, of course they would have forgiven him, but Tomas no longer knew if he could forgive himself for causing such a disturbance to his parish.

And in the middle of this all, a crisis of faith. Why had he become a priest to begin with? He could no longer remember. To matter? To belong? To find that one blissful place where suddenly all the jagged pieces of his existence would come together? Perhaps. Perhaps. He wanted so badly to remember, so when Bishop Egan suggested a move, Tomas was more than happy to take him up on the offer.

The move had been a challenge, but Marcus—Oh, how Marcus had made it easier, his presence alone a comfort deeper than any sinful intimacy. He’d come from Chicago heartsick, and through nothing more than the ease of their conversations, Tomas had found a new home. A balm for his aching heart. A reminder of his faith.

He no longer dreams of Jessica. No. His dreams have taken the shape of someone new.

And now, that someone new is hurting, suffering for reasons Tomas cannot even begin to fathom. He shuts his eyes and prays again for guidance. Prays that he may understand.

Tomas goes home. He wanders through the nave of his own church. He goes up to his apartment and scribbles three lines he won’t use for a new homily. He thinks of Marcus. He watches the clock.

—

Marcus is still as a corpse beneath the shroud of his blanket when Tomas slips back through the door of his little house. And for a moment—just a moment—Tomas has a terrible thought, eased only by the sight of Marcus’ chest rising and falling, his lungs filling and emptying themselves in a steady rhythm. Tomas sets the paper bag filled with sandwiches he’s carrying down on the writing desk and gently steps toward the bed.

“Marcus,” Tomas says, barely louder than a whisper, crouching down to gently cradle Marcus’ face. “Marcus. Time to wake up, hermano.”

Marcus’ face twists into a grimace, and he lets out a desperate little sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. Tomas pulls his hand away and says, “I’ll get you some water,” then rushes to the kitchen to fill a glass.

“Here. Try and sit up.” Tomas perches on the edge of the mattress and offers Marcus the glass.

For his part, Marcus opens one eye, groans, frowns, tosses an arm over his eyes, and Tomas can’t help but laugh.

“How do you feel?”

“Still drunk,” Marcus groans.

“All right. Come on. Come on, sit up. Drink this.”

Marcus pulls himself up into a sitting position and slumps back against the headboard with a hard sigh. He allows Tomas to press the glass to his lips and he takes a long drink, then takes the glass from Tomas’ hands and downs the rest on his own.

“What time is it?” Marcus asks, opening his eyes as much as he can manage.

“You have just over an hour until evening mass.”

“Fuck,” says Marcus.

Tomas smiles at his friend fondly. “You can always cancel. Your congregants would understand.”

“No, no.” Marcus waves a hand and scowls. “M’fine. I just need—”

“Food?”

Marcus gives a little smile and a nod. He says, “That would be wonderful, thank you,” punctuating his words with a gentle sigh.

Tomas takes the paper bag of sandwiches to the kitchen, plates them, eats his at the little writing desk while Marcus munches on his in the bed. When they’re finished, Tomas makes Marcus down another glass of water.

“You’re a blessing, Tomas Ortega,” Marcus says softly, and Tomas is so taken off guard by the sincerity in his words he nearly drops the empty glass he’s holding right there in the middle of the room.

Tomas looks at him, and Marcus looks away shyly. Tomas sets the glass down on the desk and walks back over to the bed. He doesn’t sit. He studies Marcus’ haggard face and brushes the tips of his fingers along the stitching of the blanket. “You should…” Tomas looks down at his own hands, and he thinks for a moment—just a moment—that they look like longing. His fingers splayed, inching ever-closer to the object of their—

“You should get ready,” says Tomas, pulling his hands away.

When he allows his mind to wander there, Tomas thinks it could be so easy. So easy for this to spin out of control. So easy for this to drag his heart from gentle contentment with what they have to aching—ever-aching—for what they do not. Marcus looks so fragile in his narrow bed. His bones would fold so gently into Tomas’ arms.

When he allows his mind to wander there, it’s never for long. Tomas turns away and busies himself taking their dishes to the kitchen, and when he’s through Marcus has managed to pull himself out of the bed. He’s unsteady on his feet, gathering clean vestments and shutting himself away in the bathroom to dress. 

“You sure you’re all right?” Tomas asks when Marcus reemerges.

“Yes,” says Marcus, quite unconvincingly, his face drawn down and pale.

Tomas wraps a hand around the bony arch of Marcus’ shoulder. “You call me if you need anything at all,” he says, drawing in the gaze of Marcus’ tired eyes.

“Of course,” says Marcus, forcing a tired smile before pulling away.

Of course.

—

“Bless me father,” Tomas drawls, settling down into his seat in the confessional. “I have not sinned but… I am worried for my friend.”

“Your friend will be just fine, Father Tomas.” Marcus sounds so tired, as though the effort of opening his lips and finding words is taking every last ounce of his energy. 

“How was mass?” Tomas asks.

“I survived it.”

“And penance?”

“No one came.”

“I’m here now.”

“I know.” Marcus is silent for a moment. Then, “Thank you.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened? This afternoon, I mean.”

“Not particularly.”

“Alright.” Tomas sighs. Marcus is a room with many doors, all of them locked from the other side. Just when Tomas thinks he’s begun to slip his way into one, ten more crop up and slam themselves shut all around him. “In that case, I’d like to make a confession.”

“You already said you haven’t sinned.”

Tomas laughs softly. “This one goes back a bit.” He shuts his eyes and allows his mind to delve into the deep well of his past. “In high school I had this… friend. He was very closed off when I first met him, but over time he opened up to me. He allowed me to know him, and then one day he… he kissed me.”

Silence on the other side of the partition, though if Tomas listens carefully, he can hear Marcus’ breathing. He continues on. “He kissed me, and I rejected him. I pushed him away. I was scared, you see, afraid of what would be said were anyone to find out. Afraid of… so many things.”

There is another dragging silence, and then Marcus says, softly as a sigh, “Is this your confession, Father Tomas?”

“No. My confession is that, could I go back, I wouldn’t have pushed him away.”

Silence. Silence. Tomas would give anything to know what Marcus is thinking. Even more, he’d give anything to know why he’s telling Marcus _this_. He doesn’t particularly long for his high school days back in Mexico, doesn’t long for his old friend as he might long for Marcus were they to part for good in this moment. Perhaps the regrets of the past are not his true confession. Perhaps, it is a longing for what could be could he unlock this most important of doors.

“I don’t believe regret is a sin, relatively speaking,” Marcus says finally. “Though, those things we regret might be.”

“I don’t think kissing him back would have been a sin.”

“Nor do I, Father Tomas.”

“I’d like to think I’m not the same person that I was as a teenager, that I am so much more now. Less afraid of the way that God created me. I am who I am for a reason.”

“There are those in the Church who would say different.”

“We don’t serve the Church.”

A little laugh from Marcus tugs at Tomas’ heart. “No, we don’t.”

“Anyway,” says Tomas with a heavy sigh, “the point I am trying to make is this: I will not reject you, Marcus. I will not make that mistake again.”

“I haven’t, um—” _kissed you._ Marcus doesn’t say the words. He doesn’t have to. They speak themselves into existence and drift on the air like music.

“No, well—Even so.”

Has Tomas thought of kissing Marcus before? He has, oh yes. He has, though not often. It’s not often that he wanders _there._ How can he permit himself to dwell too long on that which he can never have? And after Jessica, after ruining so much with his own selfish lust. He is different now, content with what he is given. He is. He is. He is—

“When I was a child, I was in a boy’s home,” Marcus says, cutting through the drifting silence.

Oh. Tomas’ heart begins to ache. “What happened for you to end up there?”

“When I was seven years old, my father killed my mother right in front of me.”

Tomas’ heart clenches tight as a fist. “Marcus, I’m—”

“It was a miserable place. Didn’t have any friends. The other boys, they didn’t make it easy.” Marcus’ voice is small and broken, edged in tears that Tomas can see falling down his face when he shuts his eyes. “But that all changed after a while. The Church came in and scooped me into its loving arms.” Marcus’ words are cutting and bitter. “Five quid for a boy and a birth certificate.”

Tomas has heard of such things happening, though he never quite believed them. The Church buying children, molding them into whatever it needs them to be. A dark dread pools in his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

Marcus sniffs. “Don’t be.”

Tomas’ mind races, he wants to know so much more, but if he pushes he knows that door is only going to lock itself up tighter than before. This is enough. For now, this is enough. “I’m going to say a prayer for you tonight, Marcus.”

Softly, Marcus says, “Thank you, Tomas.”

“Would you like me to make you dinner? I’d be happy to.”

“No, no, I—I’m very tired.”

“You should sleep, then.”

“Yes. I will.”

“Try to eat something, though. And drink plenty of water.”

“Yes, Father.” Marcus’ words come in the shape of a gentle smile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Goodnight, Father Marcus.”

“Goodnight, Father Tomas.”

—

That night, Tomas doesn’t sleep. He lies awake and thinks of Marcus as a boy, all fragile bones and thin limbs dragging himself through the world in the light of abandonment. No parents, no friends, nothing in the world to call his own. Tomas would like nothing more than to go back to that time, to that place where Marcus needed someone—anyone—to guide him back to something softer, to something safe.

Tomas could have been that safe place, that soft place to fall for a little boy left vulnerable and so unwanted he could be sold in a blink for a handful of dollars. Tomas could have been that for him.

Tomas could be that now. It would seem that Tomas wants nothing more.

And Marcus, sweet, gentle Marcus, with his kind eyes and his secrets, has not let the world strip him of his softness, no matter how its tried. Tomas can only imagine the suffering he has known, what his soul has endured, what his heart has fought against. 

Tomas shuts his eyes and prays in silence, for that little boy he can do nothing for. For the man the boy has become. For the man with the demons that he cannot bear to face. For the man that Tomas carries gently—so gently—in his ever-beating heart.

_Lord, I thank You for allowing me to know him, and for all that You have brought me through this brand new life. Father, bring him peace tonight, and the gentleness of only the sweetest of dreams. Bring him comfort in the light of his pain, and may he find some use in this pain someday, through the power of Your guidance._

_Amen._

Tomas lies in the dark. Tomas gazes at the ceiling. Tomas thinks only of Marcus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this chapter finished on time wasn't easy in light of the cancellation news, but here we are. Hoping to have chapter seven up by next weekend, and regardless of the future of the show, I plan to write about these two Soft Boys for a very long time.
> 
> We're still fighting for the show to find a new home, so be sure to join us on twitter and use the hashtag #SaveTheExorcist!
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your continued support on this soft parish priests journey. I am so enjoying exploring this one...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas takes Marcus by the shoulders, says, “Just let me take care of you. For a moment, just be still and allow me to do this.”

Marcus lies awake. Marcus doesn’t sleep. He is terrified. Tomas’ confession rattles around his skull like it’s searching for an answer. It’s not the nature of the confession that won’t leave Marcus alone, no, it’s Tomas’ nature itself. His honest kindness, his open heart. His naiveté that would be endearing were it not so terrifying in what it leaves him vulnerable to.

Vulnerable, above all else that is what Tomas has become. He could come face-to-face with a demon and he would be powerless, ignorant and ill-equipped to keep the darkness at bay. Tomas is a deep well of human empathy wrapped in just enough pain from his past to make him an ideal play thing for the foulest of spirits. It could be happening all around him and he wouldn't know it. It would be so easy to slip right in and—

No. 

Marcus sits on the edge of his bed with his heart racing, his t-shirt soaked right through with the sweat of waking nightmares. The simplest course of action, of course, would be to tell Tomas the truth. To tell him everything. To tell him where Marcus has been and what he has seen and what this world is truly capable of. But the risk of it all is enormous, a lump in his throat that Marcus would rather choke on than swallow. 

To taint Tomas in such a way, to steal that hopeful glint in his eyes. To risk his curiosity getting the better of him and sending him headlong into the dark world of Marcus’ past. He could be changed and twisted. He could be taken and consumed. He could be so many things. Death seems preferable. Death would seem a sweet relief.

There is no easy answer. There is no answer at all. 

And Marcus knows, if the Devil were to inhabit this place—someone he loves—there may be nothing he himself could do about it at all. Is he even capable of performing an exorcism? Could the grace of the Lord still flow through him quickly as the blood in his veins? The last of it died with poor Gabriel, and Marcus hasn’t dared look for it since. He is empty, and he is broken. A shell of the man who never lost, not once. Not anyone.

Marcus lies flat on his back and watches shadows move across the ceiling. He does his best to imagine some other world. A world where demons don’t exist. The world that lives inside Tomas’ mind. A world where the only monsters are men. A world where things might somehow be different. 

A world where he might be—

—

Marcus’ phone rings before the sun comes up. Tomas. His belly flutters as he takes the call.

“Hello, Tomas.”

“Good morning.” Tomas’ voice is heavy with sleep or exhaustion, and Marcus wonders if they’re not one and the same. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” Marcus lies. “You?”

“Not very well at all,” says Tomas, his truth plain to see in the light of Marcus’ dishonesty, and Marcus wonders when he became such a liar. Guilt presses down on him like a sleepless night, compounded only by his night of no sleep.

Marcus fights back a yawn, and it only serves to make his limbs heavier with the gnawing ache to rest. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be all right,” says Tomas. Then, “Are you hungry?”

Marcus’ belly immediately begins to rumble, and he’s reminded that he never bothered with dinner last night at all. “Famished,” he says, his tone a little lighter, a little more alive at the prospect of sharing a meal with Tomas.

“Then I’ll see you soon,” Tomas says, not giving Marcus a chance to respond before cutting off the call.

Marcus sighs and tosses the phone down on the bed. He pulls himself up to his feet and sleepily plods to the bathroom, hops into the shower, turns the water on hot enough to scald, and when he dresses after his skin is pink and supple and so warm he begins to sweat when he snaps on his collar.

He gazes in the little mirror above his little sink and traces the shape of the notch at his throat with the tip of one finger. And he wonders, had his father only been a different man, would he have ever become this at all? Would God’s voice have come calling all the same had he been happy and wanted and loved? Had he never been locked in a foul room with an even fouler thing, what greater purpose would have revealed itself to him?

A soft knock at the front door pulls Marcus from his thoughts. He turns away from his own reflection and toward the sound that’s set his heart rattling beneath the black of his waistcoat. When he lets Tomas in, Tomas sets a tote and what appears to be a checkered tablecloth folded neatly into a square down on the desk and disappears into the kitchen.

“What’s this?”

“Tell me you’ve never had a breakfast picnic before,” says Tomas, emerging from the kitchen with plates and cutlery, wearing a smile that makes Marcus feel for a brief moment that he’s just had the best night’s rest of his life.

Tomas spreads the tablecloth out on the floor, he pulls containers from the tote and scoops scrambled eggs and sausage onto their plates. He sets the plates on the floor, sits down, looks up at Marcus expectantly.

“Wasn’t expecting delivery,” says Marcus, lowering his creaking bones down the floor to sit across from Tomas.

“I hope it’s a welcome surprise.”

“It is, thank you.”

Tomas says grace. Sign of the cross. Amen. Tomas immediately begins to shovel eggs into his mouth like a man starved for decades, and Marcus laughs softly to himself at the sight. Tomas pauses, smiling at Marcus with his fork pressed between his lips. Marcus begins to eat, and for a moment, it all feels so shockingly normal. The two of them across from one another, eating lukewarm eggs as the first rays of morning sun begin to cut through the curtains, their bellies filling and their hearts full.

If it could be like this. If this could be all there is—

“Any news on the girl? The one who was having the nightmares?” Tomas asks, and Marcus feels at once the joy draining from his veins. He’d only just begun to push Harper to the back of his mind.

“Uh, no. No. I hope to see them at mass tomorrow.”

“No news is good news.”

“Yes,” says Marcus, his stomach turning with dread. He sets his fork down on his half-finished plate and hangs his head, exhausted to the bone.

“Hey, hey.” Tomas reaches out across the space between them. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.”

Tomas’ hands are moving closer. One of them curves around the bony jut of Marcus’ knee. “Hey,” he says softly. “Hey. Look at me.”

Marcus’ pulse pounds in his neck. He raises his eyes, meeting the open mask of Tomas’ face, the concern in his expression palpable. Tomas says, “You look like you haven’t slept in days. You need to eat. I worry for you, my friend.”

“Don’t.” Marcus sniffs, lowering his eyes again. “Don’t worry for me.”

Tomas takes their plates, sets them aside. He moves his body closer to Marcus, coming up on his knees, cradling Marcus’ face. “I can’t help it,” he says, forcing Marcus’ gaze upward.

Held by him, Marcus feels surrounded by him completely. Consumed. It’s too much. He shuts his eyes, swallows hard around the lump in his throat, says, “Did you, uh, did you ever see your friend again? The one who kissed you.”

“I saw him around, but we never spoke again.”

Marcus opens his eyes. Tomas’ hands move from Marcus’ face down to his shoulders. Marcus says, “Do you wish that you could see him now?”

“I suppose. But there are others I would rather see.”

“Like who?”

“Like you.”

Marcus inhales deeply, exhales, reminds himself that this is what breathing is. “You’re seeing me right now,” he says.

“I know,” says Tomas, and then his hands are on Marcus’ face again, and on his neck, and all around him. “You should finish your breakfast,” he whispers.

“Yes,” Marcus thinks he says, though it may just be a sigh. It may not be anything at all. He can’t feel the boundaries of his own body. He can only feel Tomas. 

And then Tomas is leaning in, and Marcus can’t so much as blink, can’t seem to move a single thought through the labyrinth of his brain. He can’t feel the rush of his own pulse though he’s certain it is pounding. He is water running through Tomas’ fingers. He is the light spilling through his hair.

Tomas’ hands are cradling Marcus’ nape, just above his collar, and he is resting his forehead against Marcus’, and for a moment it’s as though he’s breathing the life back into Marcus’ lungs. Tomas’ air is his air. Tomas’ pulse is his own. And then, as though the words were meant to be something else entirely, Tomas sighs and again says, “Finish your breakfast,” and then he is pulling away.

Marcus feels the loss of him. Marcus wants to chase it. Wants to plead, _give me your hands so that I may feel. Give me your lungs so that I may breathe. Give me all of you so that I may be._

But he says none of this. He takes his plate and finishes his breakfast and he and Tomas don’t speak as Tomas washes the dishes and Marcus folds and refolds the tablecloth back into a perfect square. Marcus sits down at his desk and shuts his eyes, and doesn’t realize he’s begun to doze until Tomas’ warm hand is creeping up the back of Marcu’s neck, his fingers dragging through the short crop of Marcus’ hair.

“You like it when I touch you,” Tomas says quietly, his palm cradling the back of Marcus’ head.

Marcus nods. It’s all he can do. His tongue has forgotten itself.

“I’m glad,” says Tomas. His hand moves down, skirting along the edge of Marcus’ collar, and Marcus shudders beneath the touch. 

And then both of Tomas’ hands are there, and the back of Marcus’ collar is snapping open. Marcus feels exposed at once, open to the warmth that may be the blaring sun of morning but is far more likely the heat spilling from Tomas’ body pressed up against the back of the chair.

The rigged collar is pulled from Marcus’ neck. Marcus has never felt so naked, so intimately seen. Tomas sets the collar down on the desk and for a moment it looks obscene. And then the collar is replaced with something more. Something warmer, stronger. Tomas’ hands gently encircle Marcus, and though he doesn’t apply any pressure, Marcus’ breath is stolen from him at once.

Tomas’ hands move down to grip Marcus’ shoulders, and he presses his face gently to the top of Marcus’ head. He says, “I just want you to be all right.”

“I’m all right,” says Marcus, forcing the words, forcing himself to breathe, overwhelmed by Tomas’ touch.

They breathe together. For a moment, they just breathe. And then Tomas says, “I want to know you.”

“I want that, too,” says Marcus. And he does, he does, his fear and his love battling at once inside the dome of his skull. He does and he doesn’t, and he knows that it is the most human of things to desire two things equally and at once.

“You don’t have to hold mass today.”

“I do.”

“You don’t. I’m not going to.”

“I do. I do.”

“Come home with me.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” Tomas says, resting his chin atop Marcus’ head, his thumbs gently stroking at Marcus’ neck. “We’ll take communion together. I’ll call the Bishop. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“All right,” Marcus breathes without thought. He doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to do a thing but stay in this moment with this man, the two of them the whole of creation.

“All right,” says Tomas.

All right.

—

“What did you tell the Bishop?”

“Food poisoning,” Tomas drawls with a smirk. “Terrible thing. I fear neither of us will be able to get out of bed for the rest of the day.”

“Lying to your Bishop is a sin.”

“Then take my confession.”

They sit on Tomas’ sofa. They take communion side-by-side. The body and the blood. Tomas presses the host to Marcus’ tongue, thumbs at his lip as he pulls away. And now Tomas’ lips are painted deep red with the wine. Marcus wants reach out and brush it away. He wants to lean close and—

“Now I want you to rest,” says Tomas. “You didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“Neither did you.”

“But I didn’t lie about it.”

“So take my confession.”

Tomas takes Marcus by the shoulders, says, “Just let me take care of you. For a moment, just be still and allow me to do this.”

Trapped in Tomas’ gaze and held inside his hands, Marcus nods. Marcus can only nod.

“All right,” says Tomas. “You can take my bed.”

“I—”

Tomas puts his hand up. “You can take my bed,” he repeats. “Come on. No one will bother us here.”

Tomas pulls away, stands, turns his back to Marcus. And like the apostle he has become, Marcus follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that, I actually managed to get this up before the weekend. As always, thank you for all of the kind words on the previous chapters. You guys have really motivated me to stick with this one and I just love these soft boys so much. Expect another update by next weekend. <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shut your eyes.”
> 
> “I don’t want to.”
> 
> “Shut your eyes. Lie back. Come on.”

“Shut your eyes.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Shut your eyes. Lie back. Come on.”

Marcus lets his head fall back onto the pillow. Tomas’ bed is just as narrow as his own. Marcus pulls the t-shirt down where it’s rucking up at his hip. It’s Tomas’ t-shirt, and it’s just as soft as the sweatpants he’s also allowed him to borrow. Marcus changed into them standing in the corner with Tomas’ back turned to him. When Tomas had turned around, his cheeks were pink and flushed.

Marcus shuts his eyes. Marcus opens his eyes.

Tomas sighs and gazes down at Marcus on the bed. “Just try and get some rest,” he says, turning away.

“No—” Marcus reaches out, catching Tomas by the wrist. “No, don’t… don’t go,” he says, heat spreading down his chest. “Just… stay.”

Tomas turns back to him. “I was only going to lie down on the sofa,” he says with a smile.

“Oh. All right,” says Marcus, blush spreading up the his ears.

Tomas only watches him for a moment, and then he smiles, and then he turns away, and before Marcus’ heart can sink any lower Tomas is dragging a chair over from the corner. He settles down into it at the bedside, like he’s keeping watch. Like he’s keeping vigil.

“Get some rest,” says Tomas.

“What if I don’t want to?” Marcus asks. _What if I only wish to look at you,_ Marcus thinks.

“Just try.”

“Tell me a story,” Marcus teases.

“Shut your eyes,” Tomas insists softly, and after drinking in the sight of him for a handful of seconds more, Marcus relents.

Marcus lies flat on his back and listens to the sounds of the room. The clock ticking on the wall, the pull of Tomas’ breathing, the creaking of the chair as he shifts his weight. And if he lies still long enough, he can imagine other things. The rush of Tomas’ pulse beneath his clothes, beneath his skin. The rhythmic ticking of his heart. The stretch-pull-dance of sinew and muscle and bone.

“What kind of story do you want to hear?” Tomas asks.

Marcus sighs. “Something with a happy ending.”

“I don’t think any of my stories have endings.”

“Every story has an ending, Tomas.”

“I could read you tomorrow’s homily, though I doubt you want to hear me droning on about St. Peter.”

“Just—” Marcus opens his eyes. “Anything.”

Tomas gives Marcus a look that is somehow both stern and playful. “Marcus,” he says firmly, his face betraying him with a smile.

_If I could look at you forever._ Marcus sighs, looks away, lets his eyes slip shut once more. “Tell me your homily, Father Tomas.”

“No,” says Tomas. “I have something better.”

“Finally found an ending, did you?”

“No. But I hope that one day it will be a happy one.”

A familiar flutter rises in Marcus’ belly. “Go on, then,” he says, resisting the urge to open his eyes.

“I don’t think I ever told you this, but when I moved here I… I wasn’t only questioning my place in the Church, if I belonged after what I had done. I was questioning my faith, my belief in God. I’d never heard His voice calling me to service, as so many say they have.”

Marcus’ pulse quickens. He can see it behind his eyes, the face for which words have no use, the sharp and piercing presence. It rings in his ears to this day. He tries to keep his breathing even. He listens.

“I wondered if He even wanted me at all,” Tomas continues. “Jessica was an escape. I know that now. I loved her, I did but—I was afraid. Afraid of accepting this life on faith alone. When I thought about it, I felt foolish.”

“And how did you overcome it?” Marcus asks very softly, tuning his face toward the presence at his side.

“I met a man. A man who would become my friend. And though he kept me at a distance, I still came to feel that we understood each other deeply.” Tomas goes quiet. Marcus wants to see him. Wants to— “Through time spent with him, I came to remember myself. When we prayed together, my faith would reveal itself once again. Each time, a little deeper.”

“Tomas,” Marcus whispers like a prayer. Like a confession.

“This man, this—this friend, he has helped me more than he will ever know. I hope that he knows. I want him to.”

Softly, so softly, Marcus says, “He knows.”

“I’m glad,” says Tomas. 

“He knows and… he wants you to know he feels the same.” Marcus can’t help it any longer. He opens his eyes.

“Marcus.”

“I don’t want to close my eyes.”

“All right.” Tomas gives a little smile. “While I have your attention then, can I ask you something?”

“Storytime over so soon?”

“When the Church… took you in,” Tomas’ tone has turned somber, “they raised you to become a priest?”

Marcus turns his face away from Tomas. “Something like that.”

“But did—did God call to you? With his own voice, I mean.” Tomas leans in and the chair creaks. “Did you hear it?”

He can hear it. He can hear it. Clear as the day it came to him as a boy. The terror of his life gone, and then the relief, and the new terror sweeping in to claim it. “I heard...” Marcus mumbles, to himself more than Tomas, gazing down at the stretch of his own body on the bed. “Something.”

“What did you hear?” Tomas’ voice has fallen to a whisper.

Marcus glances over at Tomas’ wide-eyed face. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. 

“Of course it does I—” Tomas pulls back, puts his hands up. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re supposed to be resting. Forgive me.”

Marcus’ eyes are growing heavy. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. He wonders what Tomas must think of him in these moments where he’s so close yet so far from the depths that he seeks. He wonders how Tomas could want to be near him at all when he makes himself so impossible to know. “We can talk about it later,” Marcus relents.

“All right,” says Tomas, his voice soft, his face softer. “Try and rest.”

Marcus watches him for a moment, wondering if he’ll stay, and when he does Marcus allows his heavy eyes to rest. Sleep come quickly, like a weight upon his chest, shackling his limbs and holding him under. 

Dreams come. They come. In shapes and waves they come. In flashes of brilliant light and color. In peace and in terror. 

And in terror.

—

Marcus dreams he is strapped to the bed. Tomas’ bed, though Tomas is not there. Holy water hisses and sizzles as it splashes against his skin. The room is dark, illuminated by the silver-blue light moon alone, and all around him there is destruction. Broken furniture litters the room, and from the darkness rises a familiar drawl.

“Marky boy,” says his father, coming into view, whipping an aspergil and sending more droplets down to burn their way through Marcus’ skin. “Shoulda done you in when I had the chance, eh?”

His father steps closer, and Marcus sees it now, the wound gaping open in the dead man’s throat. The one he put there himself at seven years old. Blood gushes from it like a fountain, dripping down onto the floor, mixing with the holy water as it splashes and it burns, burns, burns.

Marcus tries to pull at his bonds, but his limbs won’t work. He tries to scream, but his tongue is frozen in his mouth. He is a child again, transformed, cowering in the corner of his room. Biting his nails down to nubs until the shouting stops. He is a boy terrified, and a man trapped inside the prison of his own useless form.

His father smiles, all putrid teeth and blood. “Don’t you worry, boy. I already got the other one.” Splash. Sizzle. Burn. “You know. The one that you’re in love with.” Smile. Laugh. Sizzle. Burn. “The one you’ve been so foolish to think deep down could love you in return.” Burn. Burn. Burn. “How could he ever love a foul thing like you?” 

Closer and closer he comes. Marcus wants to shut his eyes, wants to forget his face. And the stretch of him, seared forever into Marcus’ memory, crawls into his nostrils and makes a home inside his mouth. Closer. Closer. Burning. Burning. 

“You won’t get away from me this time, lad.”

His father’s hands are reaching out, covered in blood, dripping with it. The wound in his neck continues to pour and ooze. Marcus can see right through it, to the moonlit wall on the other side. It stinks of rot and gunsmoke.

His father’s voice is booming now. “Nowhere to run, Marky boy! Nowhere to hide!”

Closer. Closer. Closer. He cannot get away. He cannot get away. He cannot—

—

Marcus wakes with a gasp so loud it pulls Tomas from the chair in an instant. Marcus bolts upright, dripping with sweat, pulling deep lungfuls of air into his body with a quickness.

“Marcus, Marcus,” Tomas lowers his body down onto the bed, grips Marcus’ face, forces his frantic eyes to focus. “Hey. Look at me. You’re all right. It was only a dream. Look at me. Marcus. Marcus!”

Marcus’ vision is blurry around the edges, the nightmare skittering just behind his eyes. He tries to speak but words won’t come. Tomas lets him go and says words that don’t register. Something about water. A glass is being pressed into his hands and brought to his lips and he is gulping it down until his belly is full and—

“You’re all right,” Tomas says gently, perching on the edge of the bed, holding onto Marcus by the shoulders. “Just try and breathe. That’s it.”

“I—” Marcus’ heart batters his ribs. Tears well like secrets in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s all right. It’s all right.” Tomas’ hands curve around Marcus’ neck, grounding him in the moment. “Lie back. Come on. It’s all right.”

Tomas’ hands are with him as Marcus lowers his head back down onto the pillow. And he says, “Make room,” pressing himself down onto the bed as Marcus shifts his body closer to the wall. And he says, “Turn on your side. Away from me.” And when Marcus gazes at him incredulously he says, “Marcus. Please. Please.” And Marcus cannot bear to refuse him.

Marcus lies on his side, facing the wall, eyes fixed on a spot where the paint is peeling away, and when Tomas presses the whole of himself to Marcus’ body from behind, Marcus can feel his heart speeding and stopping at once.

Tomas slips an arm loosely around Marcus’ waist. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, uh, yeah. It’s… it’s fine.”

“Good,” says Tomas, snaking his hand up to rest against Marcus’ sternum, against the rhythmic pounding of his heart. “It was a nightmare?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to.”

“No, I—” Marcus sighs and shuts his eyes. His father’s face is waiting there. He opens his eyes and stares at the wall. He presses himself back against Tomas. “It was my father.”

“I see.” Tomas’ words tickle the back of Marcus’ neck. “Was it… what happened? When you were a boy?”

“No, it—not exactly. It’s… hard to explain.”

“Try,” Tomas says, pulling Marcus nearer. “I’m listening. I’m here.”

Marcus takes a shuddering breath. “After my father… did what he did. Bashed my mum’s brains in with a hammer. I—After—” Breathe in. Breathe out. “I killed him. Pulled his poaching rifle off the back of the door and shot a bullet right into the middle of his throat and—” Marcus chokes back the memories that taste like bile and feel fresh as his bone-deep exhaustion. “And I—I’m sorry, Tomas. I don’t know where to begin with the rest of it.”

“Just focus on the moment, hermano,” says Tomas, his lips brushing against the soft flesh of Marcus’ neck. “Is that what you were dreaming about?”

“No. No. He was there and… coming for me. And… the blood. And I didn’t know where you were and…” Marcus is shaking, trembling against the solid weight of Tomas’ body. “And I couldn’t get away, couldn’t move.”

Tomas draws Marcus nearer, folding himself around Marcus so tightly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats like a prayer. “I’m sorry. I’m here.”

“I know.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.”

“I wish I knew how to help you.”

“You are helping me,” Marcus says, and it occurs to him that he’s never been held like this before. Not ever. Not by anyone. Five decades on this earth, and he has never known such tenderness. 

“I will pray for you,” Tomas whispers, his words pressed right against the tender flesh behind Marcus’ ear. “I do. I do pray for you. Every night, my friend.”

Marcus shuts his eyes. His father’s face is gone and there are no words. It’s all he can do to press his hand over Tomas’ there atop his heart. 

_Allow me to keep him, Lord. Please, just let me keep him. Let me have this, something soft, for once in my wretched life._

The room breathes, and together they breathe with it. The world ticks away the seconds like a beating, aching heart. They do not speak. They do not sleep. They lie awake together, pressed together from shoulder-to-toe. Marcus cannot be sure if the pulse throbbing within him is Tomas’ or his own. And he thinks, _it doesn’t matter. For now, there is no difference, no space between where his body ends and mine begins._

_There is no difference. We are the same. Please, Lord, let me keep him. If only for a little while._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I've seriously written 20k words of these boys just being Soft together with no end in sight, but I guess this is my life now. Thank you to everyone for your continued support, you guys are seriously the best. As always, expect an update by next weekend. <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas wakes softly, still tangled up in Marcus’ long limbs. Marcus snores gently against his neck. Tomas holds his breath, hoping not to wake him.

Tomas holds onto Marcus like a lifeline. He shuts his eyes and lets his mind drift. If his borrowed t-shirt shifts down far enough on his shoulder, the lines of Marcus’ scars begin to show. They sit high on his arms in cross-hatch patterns. Tomas wonders if they came from time spent with his father, or after. By his own hand, or by the hand of another. At least one of them looks like teeth.

The tattoo on his wrist is a curious one, normally covered by the long sleeves of his vestments. Two circles, one nestled inside the other like an open eye, or the barrel of a gun. The thought of it makes his stomach turn, what it might represent, what it might say about Marcus’ true vision of himself. The picture it might paint of his life were Tomas to gaze into the open eye upon his skin long enough.

Marcus shifts a little in his arms and rouses Tomas from his thoughts. “You’ve heard of the beatific vision?” he says, so quietly he might be talking in his sleep, but he angles his head in such a way that Tomas knows he is awake. 

A jolt shoots through Tomas at the thought of it. “Being one with God,” he says. “Seeing His face.”

“I saw it once. When I was a boy.”

Oh. Tomas’ pulse quickens. “You saw God?”

Marcus trembles gently in Tomas’ arms. “It was so loud. I could hear it.”

“I don’t understand.”

Marcus sniffs. “There is such a noise in my head.”

“Marcus.”

Gently, Marcus pulls himself from Tomas’ grasp, turning himself until he and Tomas are face-to-face, so close that their noses nearly touch. Marcus eyes are rimmed in red, wet and heavy with exhaustion. “You asked me if I was called to this,” he says softly. “I was. I was called to… something greater. Given a purpose. To help people. To save them from the darkness. And now…” Marcus looks away. “If all I can do now is give absolution…” Marcus meets Tomas’ eyes. “It’s all I have now, Tomas.”

“You have me,” whispers Tomas, Marcus’ lips so close to his own he can all but taste them.

“I know,” whispers Marcus. “I know.”

The door cracks open a little wider, and Tomas says, “You’d never had a parish before coming here.”

Marcus gives a tired smile that quickly fades. “Thought it would have been more obvious.”

“You’re a mystery, my friend.”

Another fading smile. Tomas presses a hand to Marcus face. Marcus shuts his eyes and says, “You want to ask about it.”

“I want to ask about many things.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I want to. But I—”

“It’s okay.”

“You can ask about it.”

“All right.” Tomas sighs. He slips his hand down to rub along the slope of Marcus’ shoulder. “How can you be sure what you saw was God?”

“It was.” Marcus opens his tired eyes wide. “It was. My faith has never been in the Church, Tomas. It has always been in Him.”

“I prayed so many nights to hear His voice,” Tomas says.

“There’s a price you pay, Tomas. I’ve been chasing it all my life. Chasing Him. The first hit’s always free.”

_When did you see Him? Where? Why? How?_ A million questions thread themselves together in Tomas’ mind and stack themselves on the tip of his tongue. Marcus sighs and shuts his eyes again, exhaustion deepening the lines of his face, and Tomas cannot bear to put him through another moment of recounting his past. Not now. _You have so much time_ , he reminds himself. _Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him._

“Do you want to try and sleep again?” Tomas asks, trailing the back of his hand down Marcus’ cheek.

“I don’t know that I can.”

“You can try.”

“We both can.”

“Of course.”

Marcus ducks his head, presses closer, burying his face gently in the hollow of Tomas’ throat. It feels natural, this closeness, the two of them curling together, Marcus snaking his arms around Tomas’ middle and drawing him nearer. Tomas shuts his eyes and allows himself to be held, holding onto Marcus in return, and though the position is awkward and the bed is far too small for two full grown men, eventually—blissfully—they drift into dreams.

—

Tomas drifts on the waves of a memory-dream. He has his secrets, too. There have been others, at least once more. It would seem he’s spent his whole life wanting, wanting.

Seminary. Trying to forget. 

_Quiet now, they’ll hear us._

_It’s all right. It’s all right._

_God is watching us, you know._

_I know. It’s all right._

_No. We can’t. We can’t._

Blurring faces. Hands slipping underneath his clothes. The breath of another curling into his lungs.

This isn’t how it ended, but Tomas’ tidal mind takes him there, ebbing memories finding a way to place Marcus where he’s never been and never could be. A gasp and a sigh. Blue eyes cutting into him. What was the name of the one who was here before? Tomas cannot remember, for now there is only Marcus. Only giving in. Only wanting, wanting…

“We can’t do this,” Dream Marcus purrs into his ear.

“But we are. We are doing this.”

“But we can’t, you know. We can’t.”

“I know. I know.”

“Don’t taint me with your filth, Tomas. I’m a good man.”

A gasp. A twisting in his belly. Hands slipping from him. Away, away…

Away.

—

Tomas wakes softly, still tangled up in Marcus’ long limbs. Marcus snores gently against his neck. Tomas holds his breath, hoping not to wake him. Tomas is aroused, trapped inside his own traitorous body. Of course. Of course. Don’t breathe, don’t move.

Don’t do anything at all.

But if he stays, Marcus will surely wake, and then Marcus will surely know, and wherever this is going—whatever _this_ is—Tomas will not force such thoughts on him. Brothers in Christ may comfort one another, they may touch and they may enjoy the touch of the other. Certainly holding one another in a single bed is dangerously close to tumbling over the line that may never be crossed, but Tomas has sworn to be stronger than this. He has sinned, he has repented. He is stronger now. He is stronger. 

He is strong.

There is no other way around it. Tomas quickly pulls himself from Marcus arms and is rolling from the bed and onto his feet before Marcus can even gasp himself awake. Tomas pads away from the bed and toward the bathroom to the sound of mumbled words he can’t quite make out through the rush of his pulse in his ears.

Tomas shuts the bathroom door behind him. He sits on the edge of the tub and grips the porcelain until his fingers ache. He breathes in, out, in. His arousal strains against his pants and hums along with the ticking of his heart.

Tomas bows his head and prays. _Lord, I am weak. Make me strong, give me strength. He needs me, Lord. Allow me to comfort him with the purest intentions of my heart. Allow me to know him in every way but those that would defile. Allow me to—_

A knock at the door. Marcus muffled voice questioning, “Is everything all right?”

Tomas whips his head toward the sound. “Fine!” he shouts a bit louder than he needs to. “I just need a moment,” he says a bit more softly.

A sound that may be words buzzing on the other side, then the tick of footsteps receding from the door. Tomas sighs hard and tries to still his heart, his frantic veins working over time to move the blood from where it doesn’t belong. He moves from the edge of the tub down to the floor, his knees aching against the hard tile floor.

He clasps his hands. His silent prayer continues. _Allow me to lead myself away from temptation, O Lord, for I have just now begun to correct my path. And if my path may be wrong, Lord, give me some sign that I may amend my life as it so pleases You._

Sign of the cross. Amen. Silence. Tomas pulls himself up from the floor and looks at himself in the mirror. He’s greeted by deep circles under his exhausted eyes, and more shining silver hairs scattered on his head than he remembers having yesterday. He runs a hand across one stubbled cheek and then the other. He turns away.

“Must be catching,” Marcus says when Tomas emerges. Tomas gives him a puzzled look and Marcus says, “The nightmares, I mean.”

Tomas forces a little laugh. “It… wasn’t a nightmare,” he says, lowering himself down onto the sofa.

Marcus slips down next to him, pressing his body close. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” Tomas says, quite unconvincingly. He meets Marcus’ eyes and plants himself firmly in the moment. _This is what’s important,”_ he reminds himself. He smiles and asks, “How did you sleep?”

“I slept and I didn’t dream.”

“You should try to sleep a bit more.”

“So should you.”

Tomas turns away. “Don’t worry about me.”

Marcus slips a hand up along Tomas’ nape. “I always worry about you,” he says.

The point of contact is electric, liquid heat coursing in his veins. “You shouldn’t,” Tomas chokes out.

Marcus’ fingers tangle in Tomas’ hair. His body curving into Tomas, his breath skittering across the soft flesh of Tomas’ neck, his lips so close. He whispers, “How can I help myself?”

Tomas cannot tell whose body is trembling more, Marcus’ or his own, the two of them shuddering like leaves in the wind. Marcus’ breath comes hot against his neck, and now his other hand is pressing hotly against Tomas’ chest, and Tomas tries to breath but his lungs are paralyzed. Marcus’ hands are moving, skimming along the lines of Tomas’ body, and now the flames are consuming them whole. Their bodies are live wires, pulsing with the beating of their frantic hearts.

Tomas gasps and jerks away, and he’s on his feet and blinking tears away and turning his back and trying to remember how to speak so quickly he does not register the movement. “We, uh—We should—” Breathe in, out, in. Tomas is dizzy with the force of his wanting, and he cannot bear to look back at Marcus. “Coffee. I’ll make coffee,” he mumbles, rushing off to his little kitchen nook.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It isn’t supposed to be this way. Tomas grips the edge of the counter and shuts his eyes as the coffee brews. He can feel Marcus’ eyes on him from where he remains on the sofa, though he hasn’t said a word. Does he want this, too? No, he can’t possibly. He is a vulnerable man in desperate need of comforting. He needs and he needs. He can’t possibly. He is a good man, so good that God would reveal Himself to his eyes and call him to serve.

If he’s feeling anything at all, it is being directed by Tomas’ inability to control himself. Perhaps it will always be this way, in each new place just as he has found some comfort. Perhaps he is destined to want and want until he can no longer—

Marcus’ hand is at the small of his back. “I don’t want coffee,” he says softly.

“You don’t know what you want.”

“I do,” Marcus says.

“I just need a moment. Please,” says Tomas.

Marcus pulls his hand away. Tomas can’t hear his footsteps receding over the rush of blood in his ears. He opens his eyes, feeling sick, and pulls mugs from the cabinet with his shaking hands. He somehow manages to pour the coffee without spilling it. He takes Marcus his coffee and sits himself down on the opposite end of the sofa, wrapping his hands around his mug and sipping it slowly.

“I’ll go if you want me to,” says Marcus.

“I don’t want you to,” says Tomas.

“All right,” says Marcus.

“I just need a minute,” says Tomas.

It never felt this way with Jessica. Not really. Jessica was a forgetting place, a slice of his past before important decisions were to be made. Something beautiful to remember in his many hours alone. But Marcus, oh—Marcus. Marcus Keane has shown him what it is to remember. Marcus is the light in the dark. Marcus is something real and true, evidence of God’s love laid bare before him.

Tomas sips his coffee. He glances over at Marcus glancing at him. He looks away. He sips his coffee. _Remember what you are here for,”_ he thinks to himself. He sighs. He sips.

He tries to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... the rating has gone up. Because these boys are too much and they do what they want. Undecided if that rating will be increasing further because who is even in control of this fic anymore? Definitely not me. Definitely not.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your continued love and support and sweet comments. There will be more soft boys very soon. <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We can’t do this,” Tomas breathes against Marcus' lips. “You know that we can’t.”

Marcus sips his coffee. He looks over to Tomas, down to the floor, into the murky depths of the mug in his hands. And as he gazes into the shallow dark, his past begins to pool before him. A little boy all alone in a room with a snarling demon, his little legs trembling in the presence of his Lord. The noise in his head had been so loud he’d clasped his hands over his ears, and when it was over he was surprised to see that his fingers didn’t come away bloody.

As a teenager, he’d been reckless during exorcisms. Arrogant, standing in some darkened corner puffing a cigarette and smirking at the foul thing taunting him from the bed. God was the hand on his shoulder, tucked neatly into the pocket of his jacket. Nothing could touch him, no one. Not even the Devil. 

“You’re wasting your time,” he’d say, snuffing the cigarette out under his boot. “You can’t hurt me. Your words mean nothing.”

And oh, how true that had been. There was a time when he was young that Marcus had felt immortal, pulsing with the grace of God and lighting his own path through the dark. Unstoppable, untouchable. An immovable object unafraid of the unstoppable forces of the Devil.

“Wasn’t always like this,” Marcus mumbles, glancing over at Tomas.

Tomas is pulled from the depths of his own thoughts, meeting Marcus’ eyes and giving an inquisitive sound.

“I’m a mess,” Marcus continues. “I’m not fit.” Marcus gazes back down into the depths of his coffee mug. “I’m sorry that this is all I can give you.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Tomas drawls. He sets his coffee down and moves his body closer to Marcus on the sofa. “Don’t be, I—” Tomas reaches out, catches his fingers on the edge of Marcus’ borrowed sweatpants. “I just want you to be okay.”

“I’m not… okay. I’m not.”

“I know.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.” Tomas sighs. “Drink your coffee.”

Marcus finishes the coffee and doesn’t taste it. After, he begins to doze, lulled back into sleep by the rhythmic sounds of Tomas washing dishes, putting them away, meticulously cleaning the counters. Or maybe he’s just restless, desperate for something to do with his hands. Marcus knows the feeling.

Marcus dreams he is a child again, with his mother in their forest that felt like a secret picking bluebells until they spill out of his hands. 

“You was a mistake,” his mother drawls.

“I know,” says little Marcus, watching the way the flowers drip from his fingers like blessed water.

“And what use are ya now, son? No purpose. Any ole priest can run a parish.”

“I know,” Marcus’ small voice chirps without emotion. He opens his hands and lets the flowers fall, crushing them beneath the soles of his little shoes.

“A mistake. A mistake.”

“I know. I know.”

His mother’s placid face shifts into a snarl. She turns her head, revealing the open back of her skull, a mess of brain and blood. “A mistake. A mistake,” she repeats again and again. Marcus feels nothing. Marcus understands.

His mother drifts away, blowing like bluebells in a gust of wind, and Father Sean takes her place, the hem of his cassock dragging through the underbrush, a serpent hungry for blood. 

“Always knew you’d be a failure, lad,” Father Sean says, curling his bony fingers around Marcus’ slender shoulder. “Always knew you’d let me down.”

“I’m sorry, Father Sean. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t think for one second that God would ever let you see Him now. You’re useless to Him. Useless to us all.”

“I know, Father Sean. I know.”

Father Sean’s fingers turn to claws and they dig into the soft flesh and stiff bone of Marcus’ shoulder, but Marcus feels nothing at all. And then the hand is gone, and Father Sean is blowing away like his mother, and Marcus is alone.

Alone with the flowers, shifting from blue to red, oozing beneath the soles of his shoes. Alone with the numbness of his childish thoughts. 

Alone. Alone. Alone.

“Marcus. Marcus…”

The sound of Tomas’ voice pulls Marcus back into the waking world. Tomas’ hand is on Marcus’ face. “Marcus. Wake up,” says Tomas, both of his hands now swiping at Marcus’ cheeks. “Wake up, Marcus. Marcus…”

Marcus opens his damp eyes. “You were crying,” says Tomas. “You were—”

“I’m sorry,” Marcus says blearily, blinking away the haze of his dream, pulling himself upright from where he’s slumped in the corner of the sofa.

“Why are you apologizing?” 

“I have no idea.”

Tomas stares at him for a second blankly, squeezes his shoulder, gets up and fetches a glass of water and watches as Marcus gulps it down. The seconds and minutes and hours pass by in fits and starts. At some point they eat lunch and nap again on the sofa not touching and then sometime in the middle of the afternoon Tomas leaves the apartment without a word.

And when he comes back he says, “The church is empty,” and turns back toward the door unmoving, waiting for Marcus to follow.

And Marcus follows. Down into belly of St. Stephen’s, into the empty nave, padding across the cold floor until they come upon the confessional. Tomas slips inside, leaving Marcus to come to him a penitent. Marcus sighs, hesitates, lets the draw of Tomas tug him forward into the darkness of their living tomb. He sits, listens, inhales, breathes out.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do here,” Marcus says into the dragging silence.

“Have you come to me today with some confession?”

“Tomas.” Are they really doing this? They are. Marcus has forgotten how to ask for forgiveness.

“I am here,” Tomas drawls. “I am listening.”

Marcus sighs hard. What is he to say? He shuts his eyes and shuts his mind and opens his mouth and lets the words spill out as they will. What comes sounds something like, “I no longer have a purpose.”

“Everyone has a purpose,” Tomas replies. Then, “Many people depend on you.”

Marcus says, “You don’t understand.”

Tomas replies, “Then tell me.”

More silence, then words. “This is the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place since I was a boy.”

“You’ve spent your life on the road?”

“Living out of a bag. Felt so… normal. Still trying to adjust to having my own bed to curl up in every night.”

Tomas’ breath comes quickly against the partition. “What did you do in your travels?”

“I helped people.”

“A traveling priest.”

“Of a sort.”

“And that was your purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you stop?”

Marcus’ palms begin to sweat. His blood works overtime rushing through his veins. “Something happened,” he chokes out.

“Something…”

“I lost someone.” Marcus sniffs, rubs at his eyes. “I lost—I was arrogant. Foolish. I was such a fool, Tomas.”

“Is this your confession, my friend?” Tomas’ voice is so gentle, so easy. A warm embrace to Marcus’ aching soul. Marcus wants to wrap himself in it, a shroud for his tired bones. A cover for his weary eyes.

“For now,” Marcus says softly. “For now.” Silence. One beat. Two. Marcus clears his throat and says “What’s my penance, Father?”

Tomas says, “A good night’s rest.”

“That doesn’t sound like penance, Father.”

“It is for today. These are special circumstances.”

Marcus smiles a little. “Fair enough.”

Contrition. _O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins._ Absolution. _I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit._ Marcus says the words, hears the words, but Marcus doesn’t feel them. He only feels Tomas. 

“Come here,” Marcus says. “Please. Come to me.”

“Marcus.”

“Please.”

Opening. Closing. Opening again. Tomas shifts his body into the small space meant for only one. He kneels between Marcus’ knees. He gazes up at Marcus with wide-eyed reverence. 

“Thank you,” says Marcus, curling a hand around Tomas’ neck. “For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.”

Marcus thumbs at Tomas’ cheek. Tomas pulls away and moves closer, and though it’s awkward and cramped, he spills himself into Marcus’ lap, clinging to him and burying his face in Marcus’ neck. And Marcus clings right back.

“I am grateful for your affection,” Tomas whispers against Marcus’ neck, and it feels like a kiss. His lips brush the tender flesh. “I am so grateful for you.”

“Tomas,” Marcus gasps, bunching the back of Tomas’ shirt into his fists. He’s never been this close to anyone before, not even Mouse all those years ago. Tomas overwhelms his senses, fills his lungs and tugs at his heart. Tugs lower and lower still, until arousal chokes out the anxiety and the dread that has come to define his days. There is nothing else in the world, only the two of them. Only the want and the ache.

“Tomas,” Marcus gasps again, a desperate, moaning sound.

Tomas pulls back, meets Marcus’ eyes, pupils wide and drinking him in. “Marcus,” he whispers. “I—”

Can he feel how terribly Marcus wants this? He must. Tomas shifts, straddles Marcus’ thigh, and his own arousal becomes evident. Tomas grips Marcus face, his lips forming the shape of his name, though Marcus cannot hear it above the deafening rush of blood in his ears. 

Marcus digs his fingers into Tomas’ back. Tomas is a solid, grounding weight. Tomas’ erection presses into Marcus’ hip. Trembling, Marcus says, “I want you.”

“We can’t do this,” Tomas breathes against Marcus' lips. “You know that we can’t.”

“I know.” Marcus makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whine. “I know.”

“You’re feeling vulnerable. You—You just need—”

“Don’t tell me what I need.” Marcus digs his fingers in deeper. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel or what I want.”

“I’m not, I—” Tomas pulls his hands away, bracing himself against the wall of the confessional. He shuts his eyes, takes a shuddering breath, says, “We should go back upstairs.”

Marcus feels Tomas slip from his grasp, the weight of him lifting, the force of his body pulling away, and it’s as though something is tearing from the center of him. He is being cleaved wide open, his heart laid bare, the very soul of him ripped from his body with the force of his desire. He’s so hard that he can’t see straight, can’t think. He can taste the scent of Tomas on his tongue, can feel the whisper of his lips rushing through his veins. Marcus’ fingers feel electric with the memory of Tomas’ body.

Tomas turns away, exits the confessional, and Marcus sits there alone for a very long time, until the arousal leaves him, yet remains all the same. It is a part of him now. This is who he has become. Some wanting, desperate thing. Deep within his bones there is a burning, a gnawing for something to be set free. A want to know and feel and see things he has never known or felt or seen. Something to pull him away. Something sweet and new. Someone. 

Tomas.

There was a time that Marcus was content with solitude, content with the purpose he had been given. Content with his purpose when he had one. Content to walk the world alone tracking the Devil, the hand of God the only hand upon his face he needed or desired. Tomas has changed so much, has drawn Marcus in and set his sights to something earthly. His body and his heart. Has filled his belly with love and dread and want and fear and anguish and joy and confusion in equal measure. Worrying and wanting. Wanting and aching. Aching and—

Marcus picks himself up from where he sits burning. He walks out into the nave of Tomas’ quiet church. In his sock feet he pads down the aisle in between the empty pews until he reaches the entrance. He pushes open the double doors. He steps out into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we're all feeling pretty bummed with the news that the show won't be returning on another network, but I for one don't intend to let these characters go anytime soon. I'm still not sure when this fic is going to wrap up because these two seem content to just ache for one another forever, but I feel confident in saying that we're probably more than halfway there? And once this is completed I have so many more things I want to explore with these two. I am never ever letting these boys go.
> 
> Thank you to everyone still reading and leaving such lovely comments. You guys are my everything. <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus is a fool. He has been. He will be. No absolution from a God that will not see him can change that now.

Marcus is a fool. He has been. He will be. No absolution from a God that will not see him can change that now. 

Absolution. For two years he’s allowed himself to believe it was enough, that it could be his purpose. But there is no purpose, not for him. Not at all. The Devil takes what it wants. It’s like the Church in that way. The Church doesn’t want him, but the darkness always will. He’s no use as an exorcist anymore. God has turned away. And Tomas…

Marcus would defile him. He can see that now, clear as the sun battering his eyes. He sits on the lawn of St. Stephen’s church, the damp grass soaking through his borrowed pants, wondering how he could have allowed himself to become so pitiful. Drawing Tomas into his mindless wanting, making him feel things he would not were Marcus able to control himself. The chill on the air cuts straight through the thin fabric of his shirt and he shivers. 

And from above, a voice comes. Tomas. “What are you doing, Marcus?” And when Marcus doesn’t answer, Tomas sighs and says, “Stop pouting and come inside.”

“I’m not pouting.” 

“Just come inside.”

Marcus turns his body away. He doesn’t want Tomas to see him, and when Tomas slips down into the grass beside him Marcus wants to hide his face in his hands, or run away, or for God to finally show himself in the form of some terrible thing that will end his suffering swift as a blink.

Tomas bumps Marcus’ shoulder and says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Marcus says indignantly, avoiding Tomas’ gaze.

“If that’s the truth then why are you out here?”

“I needed some air.”

“We can’t just pretend that nothing happened.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“No. You’re pouting.”

Marcus can feel the agitation clawing up the back of his neck like a fever. It’s not Tomas that’s angering him—not really. He’s only angry with himself. With the situation he’s allowed himself so carelessly to tumble into. 

“What if God’s not listening?” Marcus says flatly, running his fingers along the damp grass.

“He’s always listening.”

“You can’t know that, Tomas. None of us can. The words in our bibles are the words of men.”

“Marcus.” Tomas’ hand slipping along Marcus shoulder is a jolt to his already frazzled nerves.

Marcus looks to Tomas with wet eyes. “What if none of this matters?”

Tomas gives Marcus’ shoulder a squeeze. “Come inside,” he says softly.

Marcus looks away, bunching the grass in his hands. “I will. Just… I need a minute, all right?”

“Okay.” Tomas sighs. “Okay.” He pulls away, pulls himself to his feet. 

Marcus doesn’t look as he walks away and back into the church. Marcus sits in the grass. Marcus thinks about his mother.

—

Marcus walks back into Tomas’ apartment. Tomas is lying on his bed with his back to the door. His body moves with the steady rhythm of his breathing. His shoulders gently rise. They gently fall. Marcus’ eyes trace the solid lines of his body through the fabric of his clothes. Marcus’ hands ache to touch. His palms burn with heat of that which is so close yet so, so far.

He steps slowly into the room. His heart pounds, his blood flows. Tomas is sleeping or pretending to sleep. Marcus wishes to be near him.

Instead, he slumps down onto the sofa. He watches the steady sleep-rhythm of Tomas’ body. He shuts his eyes and imagines himself there, pressed all along the curve of his back, their legs slotted together like cogs, Marcus’ arm snaking around Tomas’ waist, his hand creeping up under the fabric of Tomas’ shirt. Tomas’ body warm from sleep and desire. Marcus’ mouth breathing hotly at Tomas’ neck and then—

It feels like forgetting, this wanting, these thoughts. It feels like remembering again. In all the darkness and the worry and the dread, there is Tomas. He doesn’t know that he can fight it any longer, but he will try. For Tomas’ sake, he will try. He will—

Tomas would whimper and moan out Marcus name as his hand continued its exploration, up, and up, and up. Down, and down, and down. His palm curving around the aching jut of Tomas’ erection. Tomas’ heart beating so loud Marcus would feel it as surely as his own. And Marcus would take the flesh of Tomas’ neck between his lips and trail a line of his love all the way down to his shoulder. And he would press his own hardness into the dip of Tomas’ back. And they would rut together like animals seeking their pleasure.

Writhing together in joy and in agony. In paradise and in sin. 

And when it was over, what would they feel? Empty or alive? Filthy or born anew? Marcus bites his lip and a moan bubbles up in his throat as he rubs at the front of his pants, his cock so hard it aches to touch, but aches even more to ignore. He has never known such desire, never known the need to be set free in this way. He cannot even remember the last time he enjoyed the sinful pleasure of his own hand. A half dozen strokes and he’d be tipping over the edge. He knows it. He—

A subtle shift in Tomas’ breathing tells Marcus that he is awake. Marcus pulls his hand away from himself, his veins coursing hotly with arousal, and he is thankful that Tomas does not turn around when he begins to speak.

“This is never the life that I pictured for myself when I was young.”

Marcus is trying to catch his breath. Marcus cannot speak. Tomas continues, and Marcus is grateful.

“I thought maybe I would play baseball when I was very young. I thought that I would be a veterinarian when I was a bit older. But then I had a dog that died and I knew I couldn’t…” Tomas sighs over his shoulder. “I couldn’t.” 

Tomas turns his body on the creaking bed, facing Marcus now, and though Marcus is no longer visibly aroused, he still flushes from his chest to the tips of his ears upon seeing Tomas’ face. His tongue is still twisted in knots in his mouth, making speech impossible, but Tomas continues on.

“I used to tell people back in Chicago that my abuela dreamed I would become the first Mexican Pope.” Tomas laughs wistfully. “A story. I thought that maybe if I could only believe it. Maybe…” Tomas sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, shaking his head. “She never wanted me to leave Mexico. She was happy for me but I know now that I was running from myself. Running from many things. But… I am glad for it. I am glad that this is where God’s path has led me. I am glad to be a priest.”

Marcus chokes out, “So am I,” with his heavy tongue and his dry mouth and his damp eyes. 

“It’s okay to have doubts in His plan, my friend. After so long, I’d say you’re entitled to it.”

Marcus nods, and Tomas watches him, and the room grows silent for a long stretch of minutes. Then Tomas says, “What would you like for dinner?”

And Marcus gives a tired little smile and says, “Anything at all.”

—

They eat dinner. The evening passes. The world grows dark. Tomas says, “I should get you home.”

Marcus says, “Yes. It’s getting late.”

Marcus gathers his things to change and Tomas says, “Keep them,” gesturing to his borrowed clothes. “They suit you.”

Marcus nods. He puts on his shoes. They leave the apartment quietly and don’t speak as they make their way to Tomas’ car. They haven’t touched in hours. Tomas’ arm knocks against Marcus’ in the car and all he can think of is the weight of Tomas’ body on top of his in the confessional. The hot breath against his neck. The fire sparking wildly between them.

When they arrive back at Marcus’ house, Tomas walks him to the door. “Sleep well, my friend,” he says, clapping Marcus on the shoulder.

Their eyes don’t meet but in fleeting glances. Marcus craves his skin. Tomas’ skin, in his hands and on his body. Marcus swallows down the rush of longing and nods tiredly. Tomas gives a little smile and turns away. Marcus’ eyes follow him down the path. Away, away. He watches from the doorway as Tomas climbs into his car, shuts the door, drives away. 

Marcus slips inside his little house and locks himself away from the dark.

He strips off his clothes and collapses into his narrow bed immediately. He takes Tomas’ t-shirt—the one he’s been wearing all day, the one that Tomas has been all over—and brings it to his nose. It is heady with the scent of him, ripe with the memory of hours ago, and for Marcus it is all too much. This is too much. He cannot bear it any longer.

He keeps the shirt bunched in his hand and spreads his legs, allowing his free hand to wander. He touches himself with abandon, trailing his fingers down, tracing the path he would like to imagine Tomas’ mouth would make along his body. And there now, _there_ , Marcus wraps his fingers around his leaking cock and gives it one slow, aching stroke to take the edge off. And how easy it is to shut his eyes and think of Tomas. To think of his friend down between his parted thighs, his delicate mouth parted in kind, whispering such sinful things. Prepared for so much more than words.

Marcus strokes himself again and his body feels electric. Alive. At last, alive. He’s not going to last but, oh, how he longs to. How he longs to dream of Tomas lavishing his body with pleasure until his lungs give out. Tomas. A devious little smirk. The quirk of his lips, the rising of his brow. He purrs, _“I’m going to take care of you now, hermano,”_ and he takes Marcus into his mouth. His lips wrap deftly around the head of Marcus’ cock. He makes love to Marcus with his mouth and with his tongue. 

Marcus plants his feet firmly on the bed and strokes himself again. He fucks up into his fist and cries out. Tomas would pin his hips to the bed and give to Marcus such things he never imagined were possible. He’s only ever known the pleasure of his own hand, but he can feel Tomas’ presence there and overwhelming his senses as surely as anything he’s ever known. Another stroke. His toes curl into the mattress. He bites his lip and keens out with abandon, tears welling in his eyes.

Where else would Tomas like to please him? He would spread him wide and explore with his hands and his mouth and his tongue. His fingers would trace whispers down, down, down, and his tongue would follow. His fingers would press inside and, perhaps, other parts of him would follow. Marcus cannot imagine the feeling but he knows, above all else, that to be filled so entirely with Tomas would be to once again know their Lord. It would be to see His face once more. To hear Him and to feel Him. 

It’s blasphemy. Marcus doesn’t care. One more stroke and he’s tipping over the edge he’s been teetering upon for days, weeks, months. He spills all over his belly, all over his hand, and the name that slips from his mouth is not that of his Creator’s, but in the moment might be one and the same. _Tomas. Tomas. Tomas._

His body slack and sated, his head full of static, Marcus sinks loose-limbed into the bed. He swims on the waves of pleasure for seconds that might be hours. Hours that are only seconds. But then, like a door rushing open and slamming shut, his belly begins to turn. Pleasure-waves roll into nauseating shame. That old familiar feeling.

_Forgive me, O Lord. Forgive me._

And as Marcus pulls his weary bones from the bed and to the bathroom to wash himself clean, he cannot help but wonder when he’ll see Tomas again. Twenty-four hours ago, he was certain. Tomorrow, of course. He will be there. He will be there for me. There was a cosmic shift between them in that confessional, and perhaps now that he has had time to truly reflect upon it, Tomas has decided that it is time to pull away. Perhaps it is time. Marcus feels sick as he scrubs his hands. Perhaps it is what he deserves. Perhaps.

Marcus finishes cleaning himself. He redresses in Tomas’ clothes and crawls back into bed feeling empty. He pulls the covers up over his eyes. He lets the darkness take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend for this chapter to be such a bummer with a side of Marcus being horny af, but honestly I'm not at all in control here so this is only a little bit my fault. As always, thank you to everyone still sticking with me on this ridiculous-soft-painful-what-the-hell-is-even-happening journey. Chapter 12 will be happening soon. <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas has thought of nothing but kissing Marcus for hours on end. At dinner, as Marcus wrapped his lips around the tines of his fork. And again in the car as he drove Marcus home. Walking Marcus to his door, Tomas could barely meet his gaze, for his eyes would lead to his lips would lead to Tomas drawing Marcus in. In and in and in...

Tomas slumps down into the last pew in the dark nave and rests his head in his hands. 

_Have pity on me, Lord, for I am weak. Heal me, Lord, for my bones are shuddering. My soul too is shuddering greatly—and you, Lord, how long…?_

Tomas has thought of nothing but kissing Marcus for hours on end. At dinner, as Marcus wrapped his lips around the tines of his fork. And again in the car as he drove Marcus home. Walking Marcus to his door, Tomas could barely meet his gaze, for his eyes would lead to his lips would lead to Tomas drawing Marcus in. In and in and in...

He’s been foolish to think he could grow this close to anyone without it turning to sin. Tomas is a font of depthless wanting. _I want you,_ Marcus had said, but oh, how could he find such wanting through the noise in his head? Marcus is in a terrible place. Marcus is suffering. Marcus is searching for a forgetting place. 

And Tomas. Tomas... His purest desires to console a friend will lead them both into damnation. He cannot do to Marcus what he did to Jessica. He cannot go down this road again.

He drops to his knees and prays until he hurts, until his knees tremble and his fingers ache. He rises. He lights a candle. He says a prayer for Marcus.

_Comfort him, O Lord, for I do not know that I will be able to._

—

Tomas’ apartment is clean but he cleans it again. He scrubs his counters until they’re shining. He organizes his bookshelf. He makes his bed. He thinks about calling Olivia but decides it’s too late.

He sits on the floor and listens to the ticking of the clock. 

And he doesn’t sleep. He thinks about Marcus. He tries terribly to not think about Marcus. And he wonders. About the past. About Marcus’ past. About the life of a traveling priest. 

Has he spent his life spreading the Gospel? No. That feels far too clean for the damage that has been done. He’d helped people, he’d said. He’d helped and he’d lost. He’d lost and he’d been foolish.

What could his life have been? How did he pass the days? His childhood was a nightmare, that’s certain, but has he known the shape of kindness and love from another? Somewhere along the way, certainly he has. It is impossible to know Marcus and not fall. To know Marcus is to know his heart, even when he tries so desperately to hide it away. He wears it plain as day, clear as the collar at his throat.

A traveling priest. What could— _Oh._ A thought occurs to Tomas that he dismisses at once. It can’t be. Not now. In the dark ages, perhaps, but those things he’d heard in seminary were only rumors. They had to be. The Devil is a metaphor. Demons cannot exist. There would be no need for—

No. No. Tomas lies flat on his back and stares at the ceiling. He watches shadows move. His mind races trying to explain it away. His heart pounds thinking, _what if._

His stomach turns at how it all makes sense.

—

Sunday Mass. Pews packed. Tomas watches it all somewhere outside himself. He spends the late morning in his office, writing and erasing lines for his next homily. His fingers itch at the keyboard of his computer. He pulls up a search engine. He hesitates.

His fingers peck out a word. _Exorcism._ He erases it and watches the blinking cursor. Again. _Demonic possession. Is exorcism real? Traveling exorcists. Catholic Church exorcism._ He types out and erases all of them without clicking through. 

By noon he’s itching to call Marcus. He should call Marcus. It’s what a good friend would do. But the sinking, shameful center of him knows that if he does, he’ll be in his car before he’s had time to consider what he’s doing. And he’ll be at Marcus’ door. And everything raw and real and electric that was sizzling between them last night will come rushing to the surface.

He calls Olivia instead. “Lunch?”

“Sounds good.”

“Your place?”

“Of course.”

He heads to Olivia’s. He leaves his phone at home.

—

“What’s up with you?” Olivia eyes Tomas from across the table.

“What do you mean?”

“Tomas.”

“I’m fine, really.”

She drops her fork down on her empty plate. “Luis, maybe you should go play outside.”

“Okay, mom. Can tío come with me?”

Olivia says, “Not right now, Luis. Your tío and I need to talk,” and when Luis is gone she looks to Tomas with sad eyes and says, “Tell me you’re not talking to Jessica again.”

“Why would you think something like that?”

“You have that look.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just tell me.”

“I’m not talking to Jessica again.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

“I just didn’t sleep very well last night. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, Tomas. Why didn’t you sleep?”

Tomas sighs. “I said I didn’t sleep _well._ ”

“Why not?”

“Olivia. Please.” Tomas stares at his sister. She’s not going to let this go. He looks away from her to the window beyond and says, “I just worried for my friend.”

“What friend?”

“I told you about him.”

“The priest?”

“Yes.”

“Father Marcus.”

“Yes.”

“What happened to him?”

“Nothing happened. Not really.” Tomas tries to think of Marcus’ face without slipping back into that confessional. Without thinking of his hands. “He’s had a hard life,” he says, pushing back from the table to clear away their plates.

“Are you helping him?” Olivia asks as Tomas washes their plates in the sink.

“I’m doing what I can as a friend.”

Olivia eyes him suspiciously as he hands her a plate to dry. “How are you helping him?”

Tomas forces a laugh. “You don’t have to worry about me all the time, you know.”

“How can I not after what happened?”

“I’ve done my penance. What happened is in the past.”

“I know,” she says. “I know.” She dries the plates. She puts them away. She turns back to Tomas and says, “It’s just…” She sighs. “If you don’t want to be a priest—”

“I want to be a priest.”

“Okay.”

“I’m good at what I do.”

“I know.” She’s frowning again. Tomas wants to hide his face. “But there are rules for a reason.”

Tomas’ stomach turns. He leans back against the counter and folds his arms across his chest. “You think I can’t control myself.”

“I never said that.”

Tomas gazes down at the floor. “You didn’t have to.”

The tension doesn’t ease between them and the room falls silent. Tomas says goodbye to Luis. Olivia’s eyes don’t change as she watches Tomas walk to his car, and Tomas swears he can feel those eyes on him the whole drive home. He hates that she’s like this. He loves her for it. He knows she’s trying her best. He knows he’s given her plenty of reasons to worry. He knows he is not worthy of trust. 

He knows that he is not worthy.

He knows.

—

Tomas sits in the confessional, murmuring absolution. Three Hail Marys. I absolve you of your sins. Tomas shuts his eyes and rests his head against the partition. He’s thinking of calling it a day when one last penitent decides to join him.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” a low voice rumbles, one he doesn’t recognize. “I don’t remember when I last made a confession. Is that all right?”

“It’s all right,” says Tomas. “Go on.”

There is silence from the other side. Tomas can practically taste the waves of anxiety spilling from this confessor. “I—” he clips his sentence before it’s begun. A beat more, then, “I’m in love with my best friend.”

“Generally speaking, being in love is not a sin.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me. It’s what I’m here for.” When Tomas is met with silence he continues, “Is there some reason why you feel your love for her might be sinful?”

“My best friend’s name is Jonathan,” he spits out. “The Church is pretty clear on what that gets you, Father.”

Tomas’ heart clenches tight as a fist. “I believe,” he begins gently, “that love is never wrong. _A new commandment I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so also you must love one another._ ”

“Don’t think this is what Jesus had in mind when he said those words.”

“Love is never wrong,” Tomas repeats, doing his very best to keep his voice from shaking. “Does your friend know how you feel for him?”

“No. He never will. I can’t tell him.”

“Be true to yourself. Be true and the Lord will provide.”

“Easy for you to say. Married to the Church,” the faceless penitent scoffs. “Just give me my penance.”

“Do you have some sin you would like to confess?”

The man sighs hard and rips himself from the confessional, slamming the door behind himself with such force it rattles Tomas down to his toes. Tomas sits there long after he has gone, thinking of prayers but not praying. Thinking of Marcus in fleeting visions he cannot seem to hold onto. Thinking of the dark. Thinking of the past. Marcus’ past and his own.

Love is never wrong. Tomas holds the words on his tongue like a holy Host. He swallows them down and holds them captive in his belly. Transubstantiation. The world is dark and quiet as a womb inside the confessional. Tomas cannot remember how to use his limbs. He shuts his eyes. He sinks into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is a bit shorter than usual, but I felt the need to touch base with Tomas before checking back in with Marcus. xD Will do my best to have chapter 13 up by the weekend. As always, thank you so much to everyone still reading and leaving such lovely comments. <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phone calls. Writing. Eating. Not saying prayers. Feeling numb. The afternoon passes in a blur of charcoal streaked across the pages of his bible.

Sunday mass passes like any other. Marcus does his very best to be present. The Kim family finds him after. Harper is doing well. No more nightmares.

“You did it, Father Marcus. It worked.” She hugs him with the full force of her love. Andy and Rose give their thanks. Marcus feels none of it. He can only feel his failure.

He’s done nothing. There was never a demon anywhere near this child, only a past dark as Marcus’ own. What has he done but give her platitudes and an object to hold onto? Any protection that has been given has come from God and God alone. 

“We’ve talked about it, and Harper would like to be baptized,” Andy says. “Can you do it?”

Marcus hesitates, wondering if blessings from his hands mean anything at all. “I’ll call the Bishop,” he says finally, feeling small.

Andy eyes his curiously. “You can’t do it?”

“It’s better this way,” Marcus says. 

Andy doesn’t ask him what he means before turning away.

—

Phone calls. Writing. Eating. Not saying prayers. Feeling numb. The afternoon passes in a blur of charcoal streaked across the pages of his bible. _All flesh is like grass, and all its glory like the flower of the field. The grass withers, and the flower wilts._

Marcus thinks of Tomas and he shudders. He feels shame where he does not wish to feel it, where he should not. He has tainted it, this flower that was so gloriously coming to bud between them. Where once it lifted its petals to the heavens, now it lies wilting, slumped in the earth and desperate for rain. 

If only he could open himself to friendship in less sinful ways. It has been broken now. Marcus has broken this one good thing. The only thing. The only one.

He draws until his fingers turns black. Until evening comes. Until penance. He should be the one on his knees begging absolution. 

_Et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti._ The words mean nothing coming from his tongue.

—

Two days. Three days. Four. Marcus spends each night gazing at Tomas’ name on his phone, but with each new day the thought of actually making that call feels more and more distant. Tomas hasn’t called or texted or shown his face. And maybe he’s just busy. Maybe. But after he’d made it so clear that he’d intended to be as present in Marcus’ life as possible, his radio silence speaks volumes.

God has abandoned him. So has Tomas.

They’ll see one another at shared community events. At church functions and fundraisers. Tomas will spot him across the room and avoid his gaze. If he’s forced too close, he’ll offer Marcus an overly-friendly hello. With distance and time they will drift ever-further apart, their brief days of friendship a fading memory.

Five days. Marcus dreams of nothing in the night. Not the Devil and not Tomas. Not Gabriel or the shapeless dark of his father’s eyes. And he finds, much to his surprise, that he is not worried. Not any longer. What is there to worry over now? God will do what He wants, as will the Devil. Souls will be twisted and taken and there’s not a single thing Marcus can do about it.

There is no worry. There is only solitude.

It’s a way of living that Marcus had grown used to, hours and days and years spent alone. He’d nearly allowed himself to forget, but the past comes rushing in sure as the tide. This is the life that he has always belonged to. It was foolish to believe that somehow it could be different with Tomas. Maybe it’s better this way.

And he can accept the solitude. Can slip back into it easily as an old suit. But the wanting? The wanting doesn’t go away. Once it’s taken root, you’re helpless to resist its thorny embrace. Vines spread from his heart into his mind, coil in his belly. The wanting is forever. The wanting is here to stay.

Marcus gives his homilies. He hears confession. He passes his hours not spent in the church all alone.

—

Friday night. Dreams return. The shape of Tomas looming in an open doorway. His back turned. The garbled edge of speech rising from his mouth. The words that flood out make no sense at all, but Marcus knows them all the same. Feels them trembling in his bones, right down to the marrow. 

Words of longing. Words of ache.

_Look at me, Tomas,_ he thinks absently. _Look at me._

Tomas keeps himself turned away. The words don’t stop until morning.

—

Marcus stares unblinking at the single word illuminated on his phone’s screen. _Hey._ And with it a name. Tomas. It’s been one week nearly to the hour. Seven days. Wandering and wondering. Solitude and acceptance. And now, a single word. A single name. It’s enough to send Marcus’ heart fluttering at once.

A single word, one that manages to be friendly yet detached all at once. Marcus lets a tentative finger hover over the screen. He wants to hear Tomas’ voice, to see his face, to feel his—

_Hey,_ he pecks out in response, sending it before he loses his nerve. He sits down on the edge of his bed. The half a minute spent waiting for a reply is a small and suffering eternity.

_How are you feeling?_

Marcus could say a million things in response. _I’m tired. I miss you. I’m thinking of giving up on everything. I’d accepted that I’d never hear from you again. I dreamed of you last night and I couldn’t see your face._ Instead he settles on, _I’m okay._

_Are you sure?_

There’s no purpose in continuing such a foolish lie. _No,_ he sends in reply.

_I’m sorry to hear that._

Marcus lies back on the bed. _How are you?_

_I could use a good confession._

Marcus sighs hard and smiles. _I think I know a place that might still be open this time of night._

—

Marcus sits in the dark and the quiet, waiting. His heart pounds a rhythmic wanting in his veins. He is alone, and then footsteps. And then he is not alone any longer.

“Hey,” Tomas says softly through the screen, and the relief of just hearing his voice—that simple, single word—is so strong, Marcus has to bite back the tears.

“Hey,” Marcus replies. Then, “It’s been a week.”

“It has.”

“You didn’t call.”

“Neither did you.”

“I know.” Marcus sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“I should be the one apologizing,” Tomas breathes out. “I took advantage of—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I took this somewhere it never should have gone. You needed me and I—I couldn’t control myself. And then I was so ashamed of myself the more time that went on and I—”

Marcus sits in silent confusion for a moment. What is Tomas talking about? He’s done nothing but give and try and—No. _Oh._ “Tomas, I was the one who—I couldn’t… I don’t understand.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Tomas whispers. “I come to you today seeking absolution from my most grievous of sins. I have betrayed not only my vows to God, but my vows to my most valued friendship.”

The voice of Marcus’ father echoes back from a nightmare. _How could he ever love a foul thing like you?_ How could he? How could anyone? Marcus’ life was not meant for the shape of love. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he mutters, wishing now more than ever for some sign from above. For some answer as to how he is supposed to proceed.

“May I have some penance, Father?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“I need to make this right.”

“You’ve not done anything—”

“Marcus.” Tomas says his name with as much reverence as the name of their Lord above. “Please. I need to do something.”

Biting back a swell of emotion, Marcus says, “Seven Our Fathers. One for each day you’ve been away from me.”

Tomas exhales. “Thank you.”

The thought of being desired—of being wanted genuinely—is not something Marcus can easily wrap his head around. And even if he were to accept it, were to believe such a thing could be possible for him, the vows they both have taken are clear. There are lines not to be crossed, even if they both genuinely and desperately want to. Not knowing what to say or what to think, Marcus says simply, “We could start again.”

“We could,” says Tomas, his words sounding like relief.

—

The 24-hour diner is little bigger than a double-wide. Beneath the shocking fluorescent lights, Marcus and Tomas eat pancakes drowned in too much sugary syrup. There’s an unreality to this sort of place, Marcus thinks. An air that says, we are not ourselves inside these walls. We are something different. We are allowed to be.

Tomas thumbs a little syrup from his lip and says. “This is nice.”

“Rubbish food under the cover of dark eaten inside of a tin box. The American dream at its finest.”

They laugh. It feels normal. For a moment, everything feels all right. In their civilian clothes, they are only men. Not men of God. They are only friends, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes just a beat too long. The harsh glow of the light washes Tomas out, but still he is beautiful. He is beautiful. He is.

_Dear God, You were having a very good day when you breathed this one into creation. Your best day yet, I think._

And when Marcus’ mind drifts there, he is unable to stop. Tomas wraps his lips around his fork and it is obscene. He licks his lips. He has freckles on the bridge of his nose, the scars of his creation, and Marcus imagines what it would be to kiss each and every one. Tomas speaks and Marcus doesn’t hear it. He repeats himself, and the words claw their way through the static.

“Marcus? I asked how your week has been.”

Mesmerized, Marcus lets the truth slip out. “Dreadful,” he says, “without my friend.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Tomas says softly. “And your friend is very sorry.”

Inside these metal walls, Marcus allows himself to believe it. Allows himself to believe that what Tomas feels for him is not an illusion. Not some pathetic empathy-response to a desperate man in need of comfort. He has grown to care for Marcus and he feels it, deep down in his bones, real as Marcus’ own desire.

Marcus stares at Tomas’ hands where they rest on top of the table. He wants to reach for them and feel their warmth. To feel that skin on his skin. He watches Tomas’ eyes watching him. Words pass between them in the silent spaces of blinking. In the time it takes to draw air into their lungs, an understanding grows.

They finish their food. They drive back to Marcus’ little house in Tomas’ ancient car. Tomas walks Marcus to the door and then follows him inside. And, feeling emboldened by the mood of the diner still sitting like a haze on his mind, Marcus says, “I meant what I said, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the confessional. Before.” Marcus stares straight into the depths of Tomas’ eyes, the words unwilling to stop. “I want you. I do. No point in denying it. Not now. No point in pretending like this is something that it isn’t. That one of us is to blame for the other…”

Tomas steps nearer to him. Close enough that they may feel the heat spilling from one another. “Marcus.”

And through the haze of the truth, reality slips back in. “This is real. This is true. But what you said is also true. We can’t do this. We can’t. Our vows… We have to—”

“I know, Marcus, I…” Tomas reaches out a hand, wraps it around the slope of Marcus’ shoulder.

Marcus bites back the heat rising from the touch and chokes out, “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You haven’t lost me, Marcus. I’m right here.”

“Thank you for being here,” Marcus whispers. Tomas nods and gives him a little smile, and Marcus says, “I want to be open with you. I do. There’s something that I want to tell you, that I need to tell you, but I just… I need a bit more time.”

“I am here to listen whenever you’re ready, my friend.”

Marcus feels warmed from head-to-toe. Blushing a little, he says, “Will I see you tomorrow, then?”

“You will,” Tomas says, pulling his hand away. He moves closer to the door. “You should try and get some sleep.”

“Goodnight, Father Tomas.”

“Goodnight, Father Marcus.”

Marcus watches Tomas slip out into the night. The door clicks shut behind him, and Marcus wants to follow. Wants to climb back into his car and whisper, “Take me anywhere. Take me home.”

Instead, he slumps down at his writing desk and holds his head in his hands. He digs in the desk's drawer until he finds an old half-crushed pack of cigarettes. He puts one between his lips but doesn't light it. And beneath his feet, he swears he feels the turning of the earth. The shifting of plates and the rolling will of the tides. The gentle push-pull of God’s creation. The confusion of His silence. And with it, the promise that not all is lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm thinking I might be able to wrap this up in the space of 2-3 more chapters, but don't hold me to that. Actually just... don't hold me to anything when it comes to this fic. I still have absolutely no idea what's going on but these boys are probably going to Get There soon. I hope. Pray for me.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas holds up a frying pan and smiles. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s finished.”

Marcus is pulled jarringly from sleep by a loud crash coming from the kitchen. His heart begins racing before he’s even opened his eyes, but it begins to settle at once when the noise is punctuated by mumbled Spanish and a voice he would recognize in even his darkest hour.

Marcus picks his head up. “Tomas?”

Tomas pokes his head out from the kitchen, his eyes wide and his hair wild. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What are you doing?” 

Tomas holds up a frying pan and smiles. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s finished.”

Marcus lets his head fall back down onto the pillow. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He shuts his eyes but he doesn’t go back to sleep. He listens to the steady rhythm of Tomas preparing breakfast and imagines what it would be like to wake up to this every morning. To the sounds of breakfast being made with hands that are almost steady. To the lilt of Tomas’ voice coming from the next room over. The smiling lines of Tomas’ face the first sight his eyes drink in upon opening. 

The sunrise. God’s grace. And this. All his weary bones would ever need.

Marcus opens his eyes. Tomas looks out from the kitchen and says, “You’re not sleeping.”

Marcus smiles softly. “I’ve slept enough.”

Tomas eyes him in a way that says, _I don’t believe you,_ but he quickly shoots Marcus a smile and gets back to his task. He puts bread in Marcus’ ancient toaster. He finishes up their eggs. And as Marcus watches Tomas plate their breakfast, absently his mind thinks, _I never want us to leave the space of these four walls again._

Tomas serves Marcus his breakfast in bed, and they slump back against the wall to eat, side-by-side, thighs touching, elbows knocking against one another in a way that should be awkward but can only manage to be a quiet comfort.

Tomas turns to him, breathes, and Marcus can feel it moving across his neck. “How’s your food?” he asks softly.

Marcus swallows. He turns to Tomas, drawn immediately into his eyes, the shades of his irises playing like sunlight upon his face. “It’s good,” Marcus drawls. “Thank you.”

Tomas just stares, gives a little nod, unblinking. “That’s good,” he says, and then he turns away.

They finish eating. Marcus clears away their plates, and when he returns to the bed Tomas is sitting in the center, running his hand along the stitching of Marcus’ pillow. His posture is reverent, worshipful. He doesn’t seem to notice that Marcus has returned until he begins to speak, pulling Tomas from his trance.

“Thank you. Again. For that.”

His palm pressed flat to Marcus’ pillow, Tomas says, “Anytime. You know that.”

Marcus’ feet feel cemented to the floor. He cannot move his body. All he can do is stare, so stricken by Tomas’ open and honest beauty that all the world seems to him in that moment a facade. All around him, lies. Tomas is the one true thing set before his eyes.

_I love you,_ he thinks. _I love you. I love you. I love you. I am in love with you. And, God, how can that be wrong? How can that look in your eyes be a sin? Our Lord hasn’t touched me in so long, but perhaps he is speaking to me now through you. Maybe He is—_

“Marcus? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m—” Marcus clears his throat and turns away, worrying at the hem of his shirt.

“Is that my shirt?” Tomas asks.

Oh. Right. He’d somehow managed to forget. Marcus has been slipping it on each night before bed, and it’s begun to feel like just another part of him. “Uh, yes,” Marcus says, turning back to Tomas on the bed. “I, uh… I like the way it feels. On my skin.”

Tomas’ expression shifts at that, his eyes growing darker in an instant. “Does it feel like me?”

“No, uh. It feels like me.” Marcus pauses, watching Tomas’ eyes. “Like you’ve become a part of me.”

“Come here,” Tomas says. “Come closer.” And when Marcus obeys at once Tomas reaches out his hands, slips them up under the hem of Marcus’ shirt. Of his own shirt that covers Marcus’ skin. He skirts his fingers across Marcus’ belly and asks, “What do you feel now?”

Marcus squeezes his eyes shut, shuttering himself from the open intensity of Tomas’ face. “I don’t know,” his voice shakes.

“Yes you do. Tell me. It’s all right.”

“I feel like I’m burning alive,” Marcus spits out.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No. Please. Don’t. Don’t stop.”

Tomas moves his hands upward, presses them to the center of Marcus’ chest. “Your heart is beating so fast,” he says.

Marcus’ breath comes quickly through his nose. His hands tremble and he wishes for something to hold onto. He wants to reach for Tomas but he feels paralyzed. And between his legs, a stirring. An ache that grows and grows. Laid bare for Tomas to feel, to drink in with his eyes, there is no sense in trying to hide it. He couldn’t if he wanted to. Not now. Not at all.

“I feel it, too,” Tomas whispers. “Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“Then feel me. Do you feel it?” Tomas inhales deep, exhales hard. “I can feel your heart beating in my hands.”

“Tomas,” Marcus whimpers. Oh, this may not be a sin, but they are toeing the line ever-closer. So near the edge that Marcus can feel the open air rushing across his skin. “Tomas. We can’t.”

“We aren’t. We aren’t doing anything wrong.”

“Tomas.” Marcus’ eyes fly open, and before he can think what he’s doing his hands are tangling in Tomas’ hair. And Tomas’ hands are slipping around to Marcus’ back, and he’s burying his face into the spot where Marcus’ heart is racing beneath his ribs.

“There are ways,” Tomas mutters against Marcus’ chest. “Ways that we could—”

Marcus runs his fingers through the thick tangle of Tomas’ hair. “Don’t think we’ll get out of this one with a technicality, Tomas.”

“I’ll leave now if you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to. Not until you have to.”

“All right. All right.”

They cling to one another. Breathing, aroused, and aching. Tomas presses his ear to Marcus’ heart, his hands rubbing steady circles into the flesh of Marcus’ back. They’re fooling no one, Marcus knows. Not God and not themselves. But for a moment, they are still, and they are together, and Marcus allows himself to savor it.

And after a stretch of time that might be hours or might be seconds or decades or all of time compressing in on itself at once, they part. 

“I’ll come to you tonight,” says Tomas.

Marcus smiles softly. “I’ll be waiting.”

—

_I confess to Almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned. In my thoughts and in my words. In what I have done and what I have failed to do. Through my fault. Through my fault. Through my most grievous fault._

—

They sit in the quiet of the confessional, as they have so many times before. Tomas, a penitent unspeaking. Marcus, listening for some sign, be it of God or of the heart.

“Have you come to me today with some confession?” Marcus asks when the silence has stretched on for far too long.

“You’re all I think about,” Tomas says gently, his face obscured by the screen between them, but the meaning of his words clear. “That is my confession.”

“Earthly love is not to be our concern.”

“I know. I know.” Tomas sighs. “I have tried. I tried to—I am trying, Marcus, but it isn’t working.”

“We maintain purity for a reason,” Marcus drawls, his voice wavering.

“I know. Don’t you think that I know that?”

Dread pools in Marcus’ belly. Dread and anticipation, though not like it was before. This is not fear of the darkness or the twisted ways of demons. This fear is rooted deep in the center of his heart. An earthly fear. One known to nearly all.

“When you think about me,” Marcus says slowly, allowing each word to form carefully on his tongue before releasing, “what do you think about?”

“Kissing you,” Tomas says easily. “Kissing your mouth.”

“Just my mouth?”

“No. Every part of you. There isn’t a single part of your body that I haven’t thought of pressing my lips to.”

Marcus shuts his eyes and bows his head. Arousal pumps hot in Marcus’ veins, and he is drunk with the weight of it. His erection strains against his zipper. He reaches for the collar at his throat, grips it with his fingers, tries to remember the prayer he used to say back in seminary whenever the thought of sinning grew almost too tempting to bear, but the words don’t come. There are no thoughts and no prayers and no words bouncing around his skull. He can think of only this moment. Of Tomas so close yet impossible to touch.

“Do you think of kissing me?” Tomas asks.

“Yes,” Marcus spits out. “I do.”

“Everywhere?”

“Everywhere.”

Tomas sighs and leans his head gently against the screen. “What are we to do my friend?”

“I don’t know.” Marcus laughs softly when a thought occurs to him. “We’re priests. I suppose denying ourselves is something we should be used to by now.”

“But I’ve never felt this way for anyone.”

The words dig into Marcus’ chest and wrap warmly around his heart. “What about Jessica?”

“This is different,” says Tomas, pulling back. He meets Marcus’ gaze in fragments, his face coming in shattered pieces through the screen. “I don’t know that I can bear it.”

Marcus swallows against the frantic beating of his heart. He says, “You can. You have to,” but even as he’s saying the words his mind is racing, and trying to come up with its own answers as to how. It feels impossible. It feels like a stone sinking in the center of his chest. Down, down, pinning heavily against his heart, settling cold inside his belly.

“Do you want to come over?” Marcus asks, feeling foolish, heavy and weightless at once.

“Do you think that would be a good idea?”

“We’ll just have dinner,” says Marcus, not believing the words before they’ve even slipped from his mouth.

“I am very hungry,” Tomas drawls, his voice thick and dripping.

“What are you in the mood for?” Marcus asks.

“Anything that you have to offer,” Tomas replies.

Marcus inhales. Exhales. “Okay.”

“Can I just have a moment? I’ll meet you over there. I just need to…” Tomas’ voice trails away, but he doesn't need to finish. Marcus understands.

“Of course. Take as long as you need.”

Marcus slips from the confessional, leaving Tomas behind in the quiet space of penance. He takes his time walking from the church to his little house, and once he’s made it inside he can’t seem to stop his pacing. Back and forth across the short length of the floor, his legs frantic as his heart and his mind. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He worries at his crucifix. He eyes the clock. He tries to think of what to make for dinner but he can’t call forth even the simplest recipe from the well of his mind.

And from behind, the sound of the door creaking open. Marcus freezes in his tracks. He can feel Tomas’ eyes on him as the door clicks shut. Marcus spins around. Tomas is still clad in his vestments, the white notch calling out from his throat. He quirks his lips up in a little smile and Marcus feels it down to his toes.

“Dinner?” Marcus hears himself say from somewhere outside himself. He does not feel the words. He can only feel the draw of Tomas. Tomas and his smile.

“It’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

Of course. Marcus turns from Tomas. Marcus goes into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the moment I'm going back and forth between definitely only needing two more chapters to wrap this up, and being certain I'm just going to keep on writing this forever. So like... there will probably be two more chapters but pls don't hold me to that because these boys are a mess and I really do think they would be happy to just go on being Very Catholic and stepping just close enough to getting what they want to make it hurt even more before pulling back and denying themselves all over again. And between that and trying to pick the right moment to have Marcus reveal his past to Tomas... who knows. xD


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come here,” Tomas drawls behind Marcus’ back. He’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Marcus can feel him there.

From the shed behind the church Marcus fetches a card table and two folding chairs. Tomas sets them up between the writing desk and the bed while Marcus plates what might possibly pass for stir fry if you’d only lower your standards a little. 

They sit across from one another. Tomas reaches out his hands. “Please,” he says, and when Marcus slips his fingers against Tomas’, his whole body is set ablaze. Marcus has to fight to shut his eyes and bow his head as Tomas says grace. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bountiful hands, through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” Marcus mutters, raising his eyes to Tomas once more. Their hands remain linked atop the table for another beat before their parting. Marcus takes his fork in hand and moves his food around his plate, but he feels no hunger. Not for this, at least.

Tomas forks a bite into his mouth, chews, swallows. Marcus eyes the muscles working in his jaw and in his throat. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks.

Marcus rakes his eyes over Tomas’ face. Unable to work his useless tongue, Marcus nods a little, forces his eyes away, and begins the tedious task of enjoying his meal. He forks bites into his mouth and doesn’t taste them. From across the table, Tomas radiates his warmth like the sun, breathing life into Marcus’ lungs. Planting the seeds of something familiar, something different. Something he can only see in the periphery of his vision. A little spark of what they might become.

They finish eating. Tomas clears the table. Marcus sits with his hands folded in his lap, paralyzed. His pulse ticks away in his neck, a countdown to something imminent. He feels painfully aware of his own space inside the room, but he can do nothing about it. The urge to flee and the inability to do so make his head spin.

“Come here,” Tomas drawls behind Marcus’ back. He’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Marcus can feel him there.

“I can’t,” Marcus spits out.

“Why not?”

“Because if I touch you again I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”

“Should I go, then?”

“No,” Marcus all but whispers, shaking his head, shutting his eyes. “Don’t go, Tomas. I don’t want you to go.”

Tomas hand slips hotly along the back of Marcus’ neck. “Then I won’t go.”

The heat spreads down Marcus’ spine, lower and lower, coiling between his legs and seeping into his bones. His breath comes heavy and shuddering. Tomas pulls his hand away, and Marcus can move again. He turns in the chair, following Tomas with his eyes as he makes his way over to the bed, sits on the edge, eying Marcus darkly.

“How was mass today?” Tomas asks, filling up the space occupied by the roiling tension between them.

“I don’t remember,” Marcus says honestly. Has there ever been a time before they were here in this room together? He can no longer be sure.

Tomas gives a little smile. “It does sort of all run together after a while, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” Marcus whispers, drawn into the light of Tomas’ eyes. If he stares long enough, perhaps this will reveal itself as a dream, fuzzy and blurred at the edges. He blinks. Tomas is still there.

Marcus is moving before his mind can register it, drawn toward Tomas like a moth to a light in the dark. He sits next to Tomas on the bed, he reaches for his hand. They lace their fingers together and Marcus rests his head on Tomas’ shoulder. And Marcus thinks, _you can control yourself. You are in control. You may not feel Him but He will give you strength. He does. He gives His strength to you._

Tomas’ hand is warm. His body is warm. He is still and breathing. He nuzzles against Marcus and says, “This is all right.”

“Yes,” Marcus says. “This is all right.”

Quietly, Tomas asks, “What did it feel like when you saw God?”

A ringing in his ears. Just a whisper. “Like I was all filled up,” Marcus mutters. “Overflowing. Like my body couldn’t possibly contain so much sound. So much light.”

“Do you want to see Him again?”

Marcus sighs, gently squeezes Tomas’ hand. “I just want to know that He’s listening.”

“He is,” says Tomas, snuggling closer. “He is. I know it.” A breath. A sigh. “I wonder what He thinks of us.”

Marcus pulls back, meets Tomas’ eyes. “Maybe He doesn’t think anything at all.”

_You are in control,_ Marcus reminds himself. _You are in control._ He can feel the blood rushing at all the points of his pulse. His hand still rests in Tomas’ hand. He knows more than anything the exact space his heart occupies in his chest. Tomas licks his lips and Marcus has to look away.

_I am not in control. I am not._ Marcus pulls his hand away and rises to his feet. “I’m sorry, Tomas. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happening here and I—”

“It’s okay, Marcus. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. It’s not.” Marcus stands with his back turned, trying to catch his breath. “I’m trying so hard to—to remember why I’m here. Why I’m a priest. Why it matters. Why God hasn’t shown Himself to me since—” Marcus draws in a shuddering breath and turns to Tomas. “I’m trying to be honest with you. To be open. I’m getting there. I can feel it. I feel you.”

“Marcus.” Tomas’ face is painted with love and concern in equal measure.

“I feel you,” Marcus breathes out. “But what if I never feel Him again?”

“Marcus,” Tomas holds his name so carefully. He reaches out his hands. “Come to me.”

Lightly, Marcus allows himself to float back into Tomas’ space. Nearer and nearer, until he’s curling his hands around Tomas’ shoulders and climbing into his lap. He wraps himself around Tomas, and Tomas draws him closer, wrapping Marcus up in his arms. Straddling Tomas’ lap, Marcus can feel that he’s aroused. He runs his fingers along the edge of Tomas’ collar.

How long can two people dance on the edge of a blade without tumbling over? How long? How long. Tomas’ hands bunch in the back of Marcus’ shirt, skirt along the straps of his waistcoat. Tomas buries his face in the hollow of Marcus’ throat and Marcus shudders.

“Tomas. Please.”

“I’m right here.” Tomas’ breath skims along the flesh of Marcus’ neck.

“Tomas.” Marcus takes Tomas’ face in his hands, knocks their foreheads together. He repeats Tomas’ name like a prayer. Again and again. “Tomas. Tomas. Please. Please.”

Marcus presses nearer. Tomas clings tighter. When their lips slot together it feels inevitable, two shattered pieces coming together. A world off-balance finding its center. Tomas kisses the way that he lives, with a gentle burning passion. He moans into Marcus’ mouth and Marcus drinks him down, taking Tomas’ breath— _his life_ —deep inside of him. If only they could live in this moment forever. If only they could—

Marcus breaks the kiss, pulling away gasping for air. Tomas’ lips are wet and parted and wanting. Marcus looks away. “We should, uh…” Tomas thumbs at Marcus’ lips, stealing his thoughts. “We should…”

“Yes,” Tomas whispers. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

“Don’t be. Don’t be sorry. Don’t” Marcus is dizzy with wanting. He wills himself to pull away, leaving Tomas there aching on the bed as he stumbles over to his writing desk.

Marcus buries his head in his hands. The world tips and spins, pulling Marcus along for the ride. He can taste Tomas still on his tongue, feel every little space where their bodies met. Tomas’ hand brushes lightly against the back of Marcus’ neck. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

Marcus looks to him. “Don’t be sorry, Tomas. This isn’t your fault.”

“There is no fault here,” Tomas assures him with a soft expression. “Goodnight, Father Marcus.”

Marcus sighs. “Goodnight, Father Tomas.”

Marcus sits buzzing like a livewire long after Tomas has gone. He clasps his hands and he prays. Gently, he prays. _Haven’t I suffered enough? Haven’t I?_

_What is it that You want from me? Lord, tell me what You want._

—

Marcus opens his eyes to the dark, roused from a shapeless dream by his own labored breathing. He clicks on his phone and checks the time. Just past 2am. He sighs, rests his phone against his chest, and as if on cue it begins to buzz, mimicking the rhythm of his heart.

Tomas. Of course. Who else would be calling at such an hour, or at all?

“Hello, Tomas.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t. Is everything all right?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice.”

The sound of Tomas’ voice is an intimacy Marcus has rarely known, and he is suddenly aware of his own bare body beneath the covers. And though Tomas cannot see him, Marcus blushes anyway. 

And then, Marcus can’t help himself. “Tell me… about the other ways.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You said there were other ways. For us to—”

“Oh.” Tomas pauses, breathing into the phone. “I thought you said no technicalities.”

“Humor me, Tomas.” Marcus lets out a nervous laugh. “Just. Tell me what you meant.”

“It’s—” Tomas inhales sharply. “It’s less of a sin if we don’t touch each other.”

“God tell you that, did He?”

“It’s not breaking our vows if we just… listen to one another. Or see one another. Intimately.”

“I wish that I could see you now.”

“I can come to you. If you want me to.”

“No,” Marcus breathes, his pulse rushing so loudly in his ears he can barely hear his own thoughts. “Just talk to me. Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I’m lying in bed,” says Tomas “The bed that we shared on that day I will remember forever.”

“My bed smells like you,” Marcus drawls, not sure if he’s imagined it or if Tomas’ scent truly remains.

“Are you wearing my shirt right now?” Tomas asks playfully.

The blush spreads from Marcus’ cheeks down to his chest. “No, I uh—I’m not… wearing anything.”

“Oh,” Tomas exclaims softly. “I’m still in my collar,” he says. “I’ve been lying here over the covers for hours thinking of that kiss.”

And that is what, more than anything, does Marcus in. The sight of his collar, the symbol of his devotion and obedience. And the thought of it slowly stripping away, the rigged ring of black and white coming apart to reveal the supple flesh below. Marcus thinks he would like to press his lips just there, completing the circle with lips and teeth and gentle moans, creating a collar of his love for Tomas to wear against his skin.

Marcus shoves his free hand beneath the covers and encircles his cock with his fingers. “I can still feel your lips on my lips,” he says shuddering.

“Marcus,” Tomas breathes out the name that he handles as carefully as a holy Host upon a tongue. “If I were there with you now, I would let you see me. All of me, Marcus. I would.”

A single stroke. Just enough to take the edge off. “Tomas,” Marcus whimpers.

“And I would hope to see you. All of you.”

“Tomas.” Marcus pulls his hand away from himself. It’s too much. It’s not enough. This is not a tension that he wishes to see end this way. “Are you, um. Are you…”

And as always, Tomas can read him. Even from across the line. “I still have my clothes on, remember?”

Marcus can’t help but smile through the ache. “I allowed myself to… After the day we spent together in your bed. And in your confessional. But I don’t…”

“We deny ourselves, remember?” Tomas laughs softly. “It is what we do.”

“I want you terribly, Tomas,” Marcus lets slip out. “The next time I… feel that release. I would like it to be with you.”

“I have dreamed of it,” Tomas says softly. “I will dream of it tonight.”

“May they be the sweetest dreams you’ve ever known.”

“Thank you for talking with me, my friend.”

Marcus sighs. “Thank you for calling.”

“I’ll come to you tomorrow,” Tomas says.

“No,” replies Marcus. “Allow me to come to you. I could use a good confession.”

“Of course. I’ll see you then.”

They say goodnight. The line goes dead. Marcus lies in the dark with his hands above the covers, aching and thinking of prayer. The taste of Tomas still upon his lips. The gentle song of Tomas’ voice still rattling in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had initially planned on these two going All The Way with the phone sex but then I started writing it and they decided they had to be Very Catholic about it. Because of course they did. These boys will be the death of me I swear...


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t give you… what I wish that I could give you. But I can give you my truth, Tomas. I owe that much to you.”

Marcus is drowning. Blue-black water fills his nose and floods into his lungs. He never knew he could be filled with so much dark. He is shattering, crumbling to pieces in the space carved to life inside a dream.

Marcus gasps. He is whole again. He is strapped to the bed. He can no longer be certain that this is only a dream. The space of the room is narrow yet endless, dark save for a thin sliver of moonlight in his periphery. There is no sense where his body ends and the hollow dark begins. There is something inside of him, something prodding at his heart, settling easily between his lungs. His ragged breath tastes rotten on his tongue. There is someone at his side, someone standing over him, but he cannot make out the shape of them through the blinding dark.

A growl. A snarl. Marcus is falling. He reaches out his arms, but there is nothing to hold onto. There is only the dark, and his memories reaching for the dark. Reaching through it. Growing from it. Sending out roots like claws, hungry for the heart. 

A flash. A blink. Marcus is in his childhood home. Something terrible is happening downstairs. Glass breaks. Voices boom up the stairwell and down the hall. This is the night his mother dies. This is the night his little hands reach for violence for the very first time. This is the night he kills his father.

A flash. A blink. A gasp. Tomas is there, kneeling in front of Marcus, holding out his arms. Marcus’ little legs run to him. Tomas bundles him close. Marcus buries his little face in Tomas’ broad chest. Behind them, the shouts are fading. Tomas carries Marcus away, away, until the voices and the violence and the shaking of his hands are no more.

—

Marcus spends the day in a fog, though it doesn’t bog him down. There is a lightness to it, as though he can feel one of his many burdens shaking loose from his soul, freeing itself at the root and reaching out its branches, finding something else to hold onto. He allows himself to be present for his hour of absolution. He allows himself to remember that it matters. It is not saving the world. It is not defeating the Devil. But even so, it matters.

He arrives at St. Stephen’s after dark. He passes congregants praying quietly in the semi-dark of the nave and heads straight for the confessional, but Tomas isn’t there. Marcus rests his head against the partition and sighs. He sits in the dark with his thoughts, minute after ticking minute wondering if, somehow, Tomas has forgotten him. Purged Marcus from his thoughts like a bad habit suddenly not worth all the trouble. An exorcism of the heart.

And just as that fear is curling deep down into Marcus’ bones, Tomas slips into the confessional beside him. “Sorry,” he mutters gently. “My nephew Luis is with me tonight. I was helping him with his homework.”

Marcus laughs a little louder than he intends. “It’s all right. You’re here.” He sighs. “So am I.”

“I am,” says Tomas. “I’m listening.”

Marcus breathes in. Marcus exhales. “Bless me, Father. You already know my sins.”

“I do. You should speak them anyway.”

“I didn’t come here for that sort of confession.” Marcus wrings his hands together in his lap. “I can’t give you… what I wish that I could give you. But I can give you my truth, Tomas. I owe that much to you.”

A beat. A breath. “I’m listening.”

“I’m going to tell you, uh—” Marcus sniffs. The whole of his body trembles. “I’m going to tell you and I need you to not ask any questions. Not right now. Not to me or anyone about what I’m going to say. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Marcus. I’m here. I’m listening.”

Marcus breathes in. Marcus exhales. “When I was a boy,” he begins, his heart leaping between his lungs with every word, “the Church wasn’t just buying up boys to ship ‘em off to monasteries and fill their parishes with priests. They were looking for something more, and they found that something in me.” Breathe in. Breathe out. “When I was twelve years old I was put into the care of a man called Sean. And one night he took me and the other lads they’d bought up deep into the belly of the church. One after another, they’d go down the hall and come back ruined. Sobbing, sick all over their shoes. I didn’t understand until it was my turn. Until Father Sean locked me inside that room.”

Marcus continues breathing. Tomas is quiet and attentive. Marcus watches the dimly-lit fragments of his face through the screen and continues. “That was the first time I was put into a room with a demon. And do you know what I felt, Tomas?” Marcus laughs bitterly, tears welling in his eyes. “Relief. ‘Cause for the first time in my brief but very long life, I had a purpose. I was the gun, and the Church was the hand, and the words were true.”

Tears fall wet and fat from Marcus’ eyes. He wipes at them with his sleeve. Tomas whispers, “I’m here,” like an invocation. And what must he be thinking? Marcus forces himself to continue on.

“I was an exorcist for forty-some-odd years. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. The whispers in the halls at seminary. It’s all true, Tomas. All of it. And it was over for me as quickly as it began.”

“I believe you,” Tomas says, and Marcus hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed to hear that. Tomas’ simple trust is a balm to the open wound of his memories.

“I lost someone,” says Marcus, willing the tears to stop. “A boy. I was foolish, and careless, and prideful. I didn’t think I could lose and in a blink it was all over. So they shipped me off to some home for broken priests. A retreat center, they called it. But it’s just where they send us when they have no use for us anymore.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” says Tomas. And the way that he says it—Marcus almost believes that it might make a difference. That for a brief handful of seconds Tomas Ortega might be able to reach back through Marcus’ past and make things right with the force of his love.

“Thank you, Tomas,” Marcus whispers. “I mean that.”

“You know that I am here for you.”

“I know.” The catharsis of the moment rushes through Marcus’ veins like a drug. “When they sent me here, I knew that they were washing their hands of me. I knew it. But I told myself that I could still make a difference… somehow.”

“You do, Marcus. You make a difference. You have to know that.”

Words settle on the tip of Marcus’ tongue but they don’t come out. It’s as though he’s the one now who’s been exorcised, ripped right open for Tomas to see. And Tomas doesn’t turn away from the dark. He brings his lips close to the partition and says, “I’m so grateful, my friend. That you have allowed me to know you.”

Marcus fights back another oncoming flood of emotion. He presses his shaking hands tightly between his thighs to still them. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you something sweeter to know.”

“You already have, hermano.” Tomas’ voice is so warm, Marcus wants to curl up inside it. Between them, Tomas slips the screen open, gifting Marcus with the full view of his face. “Come here,” he says softly. “Come close to me.”

Marcus presses in, bringing his face close to Tomas’ face, breathing in the sight of him, drinking in his presence. Tomas thumbs at Marcus’ cheek, at his lips, tracing every line of Marcus’ face with his eyes.

“Come upstairs with me,” Tomas whispers, his breath coming hotly against Marcus’ lips.

“Your nephew,” Marcus mutters, locked in Tomas’ magnetic gaze, the gentle touch of his hand upon Marcus’ face.

Tomas smiles softly, radiating love up to his eyes. “He would love to meet you. If you’re feeling up to it, of course.”

“I am,” Marcus says, surprised at his own sense of calm. “I’m just… surprised that you are. Thought you’d be more… I don’t know. Not like this.”

“You told me not to ask any questions.” Tomas pulls back. Marcus aches to chase him. “We’ll talk more about it when you’re ready.”

Tomas is trying his best, but Marcus can still see it, the subtle terror that lurks just behind his eyes. He thinks if he listens carefully enough he can hear the heart leaping in Tomas’ chest. This is not some small revelation, changing someone’s worldview in the space of a mouthful of words. Marcus would allow the guilt to devour him were Tomas not smiling so sweetly.

Tomas slips from the confessional and Marcus follows. Marcus feels drunk on relief and adrenaline and fear and love. Outside the door of Tomas’ living quarters, Tomas turns to Marcus, runs up a hand up along the line of his shoulder. He eyes Marcus’ lips and swallows hard. “Stay for dinner?” he says, forcing his gaze up to Marcus’ eyes.

Marcus says, “Of course,” and Tomas pulls his hand away to open the door. Inside, Luis sits at the folding table set up next to the sofa, scribbling on a page in what Marcus suspects is an attempt to pretend he’s been hard at work while Tomas was away.

“Hungry, buddy?” Tomas ruffles Luis’ hair and Marcus’ heart swells in his chest. Luis gives a little sound of affirmation and Tomas smiles, turning to Marcus. “Luis, this is my friend, Father Marcus.”

“Hi,” Luis mumbles, not looking up from the table.

Marcus takes the seat across from Luis as Tomas busies himself in the kitchen. He glances over Luis’ paper and smiles. “Was always rubbish at maths myself,” he offers.

“Uncle Tomas isn’t very good either,” says Luis.

Marcus barks out a laugh and Luis smiles. Tomas peeks his head out from the kitchen. “What did I miss?”

Marcus smirks, eying Tomas with a soft intensity. “Nothing at all, Father Tomas.”

“So you’re a priest like my tío?” Luis asks, working out an equation in the margin of his paper.

“I am.”

“Do you like it?”

It occurs to Marcus that no one has ever asked him that before. It occurs that Marcus that he has no idea how to answer such a question. He settles on, “I’ve been doing it all my life,” and Luis accepts it at that, continuing on penciling in numbers with his unsteady fingers.

“All right guys, time for dinner,” says Tomas, coming out of the kitchen carrying steaming bowls of stew that set Marcus’ mouth watering in an instant.

Marcus eyes Tomas. “Smells delicious.”

“Leftovers from my sister.”

“Ah.” Marcus beams at Tomas. “Thought maybe you’d learned a new trick or two.”

Tomas takes his seat, smiling. “Maybe I have.”

Marcus ducks his head, blushing a little, and hoping Luis is still far too young to have a clue what the look on his uncle’s face might possibly mean. They join hands and say grace. They eat their food in a companionable silence peppered with questions passed from Tomas to Luis, the boy far more focused on eating than talking with his uncle about school or bible study.

When they’re finished, Marcus helps Luis wash the dishes. Luis rambles on about some video game or another and Marcus pretends he has a clue what he’s talking about. He catches Tomas watching them over his shoulder, beaming love from his eyes in a way that warms Marcus to his marrow. And it all feels so normal he almost allows himself to forget how wide open he has cleaved himself tonight. How he has opened up the floodgates of darkness for Tomas’ mind. How he’s fought so hard to shelter Tomas from that dark, and with only a word has brought that shelter tumbling down.

“I should be going,” Marcus says, drying his hands and turning to Tomas.

“Is everything all right?” Tomas asks, his expression turning from warm to concerned in an instant.

“Fine,” Marcus says, quite unconvincingly. “Just tired. And I’d hate to take away from the lad’s time with his uncle more than I have to.”

“It’s okay, Father Marcus,” Luis says, passing Marcus on his way back to his homework. “You can stay.”

Reading Marcus like a well-worn book, Tomas says, “No, Luis. Father Marcus is right. We need to focus on finishing that homework before your mom gets here.”

“You can’t do it either, tío. It’s okay.”

Tomas shoots Luis a gentle scolding look, and Marcus can’t help but laugh a little. Turning back to Marcus, Tomas says, “I’ll walk you out.”

Marcus nods. “It was nice meeting you, Luis,” he says, turning toward the door. “When you get the hang of your maths, maybe you can teach me a thing or two.”

“And my tío,” Luis says absently. “He’s really bad at it.”

Tomas shakes his head, an amused smile painting his face, and he walks with Marcus to the door. And when the door clicks shut behind them, Tomas draws Marcus in, folding Marcus into his arms and pressing their bodies together from head-to-toe.

“You’re not fine,” Tomas mutters against Marcus’ neck.

Marcus clings to Tomas’ shirt. “No. I’m not.” 

“Is there anything that I can do to make it better?”

Marcus slips free from Tomas’ arms. Tomas chases him with his eyes and with his hands, reaching for Marcus across the growing space between them. Marcus shuffles his feet, shoves his hands deep into his pockets and says, “I just need to sleep on it, all right? Just… let it be for now. Can you promise me that, Tomas? Don’t poke around. Don’t go… looking for it.”

“You’re scared.”

“Terrified.”

Tomas curls a hand around Marcus’ elbow. “I’m sorry, Marcus.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Just promise me.”

Tomas takes Marcus’ face in his hands, drawing in his damp-eyed gaze. “I promise. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right.”

Marcus shuts his eyes and grips the front of Tomas’ shirt. Tomas pulls him closer again, this time slipping his hands around Marcus’ nape, and Marcus can only hold onto him, allow him to take Marcus where he needs to. Their bodies slot together with the language of their love. Their mouths find each other easily. It feels like coming home. The kiss is gentle and fleeting and exactly what Marcus needs it to be, and when Tomas pulls away Marcus’ heart is beating with such quickness he can feel his pulse jumping in his neck.

“Call me if you need anything,” says Tomas, moving himself back toward the door. “Anything at all. I don’t care what time it is.”

“Thank you, Tomas.”

“There’s somewhere I’d like to take you tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“All right.”

“All right. I’ll come to you tomorrow.”

Marcus nods. “Tomorrow, then.”

Tomas reaches for the doorknob and gives Marcus a little smile. “Tomorrow.”

Marcus stands in the dim and quiet hallway, thinking of the dark. Thinking of Tomas’ lips upon his lips. Thinking of the Devil and of a God that has abandoned him. Wondering if he will look back on this night a handful of years from now certain it was nothing more than one more mistake in a lifetime so full of them he can no longer see the bottom.

Marcus turns from Tomas’ door toward the stairway, toward the night, the descending darkness beckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we're officially back on the _who even knows how long this thing is going to be_ train so please bear with me while these boys figure it out and while I attempt to wrangle them. Could be two more chapters, could be five, could be we're just here forever in a never-ending spiral of Very Soft Pain. I know where this thing ends, it's just hard to predict exactly how long it's going to take us to get there. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I didn’t know better, Father Tomas, I’d think you were bringing me out here to hide from God. Not find Him.”

Tomas locks himself in his little box of a bathroom and clicks on the light, clicking it off again when he catches a glimpse of his own wide-eyed expression in the mirror. He sits on the edge of the tub and grips his knees, trying to remember how to breathe. When Marcus speaks of his past, Tomas knows it is the truth. Always. What reason would he have to lie about such a thing? And the pieces, how they’ve all clicked now perfectly into place. It fits, every detail. A life spent chasing the dark.

_The Devil is real_. Tomas chokes back the bile rising in his throat. He wants to ask so many things. He wants to fall to his knees and beg God for answers. To pick up the phone and beg Marcus for the same. But to do such a thing to Marcus is inconceivable, and God feels so very far away.

“Tío?” Luis’ voice comes through the door. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, Luis!” Tomas shouts, his voice faltering. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Little feet patter away from the door. Tomas goes to the sink and splashes water in his face, lets it drip down onto his shirt. In the dark he can only make out the edges of his face in the mirror, cracks of light spilling in from around the doorway framing him with the afterthought of a halo. He breathes in deep, holds the air in his lungs until he feels he might burst, shoves it all back out again until he is empty.

One last deep breath and Tomas emerges from the bathroom. He forces a smile at Luis, joins him at the table, does his very best to focus on the homework sheet set before them, but the equations appear a blur before his eyes. They swirl into a shapeless mass, fuzzy at the edges. Tomas has always been good at math, at least when it comes to the basics such as this. Before Marcus’ visit, focusing was difficult, leaving his nephew certain that his uncle was an empty head wrapped in a collar. Now, Tomas feels utterly useless.

“It’s okay, tío. I’ll ask mom to help me finish it.”

When Olivia arrives for Luis, she reads Tomas clearly as she always has. “Please, don’t lie to me, Tomas,” she mutters as Luis pulls on his coat.

Tomas’ heart is tight as a fist in his chest.“What do I have to lie about?”

Olivia pulls him gently into an embrace. “Te quiero, Tomas,” she whispers, the line of her body tense. She pulls back and gazes at him with an intensity. “You know that you can tell me anything.”

Tomas swallows thickly around shame and fear and love for his sister. “Está bien.” He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I’m fine. Go home and don’t worry about me.”

_How can you expect that of me,_ her eyes say. Her mouth says, “Call me if you need anything.”

They say their goodnights. Luis’ eyes carry confusion with them out into the hall. Tomas goes right the kitchen, to the fridge, grabs a beer, pops it open, collapses down onto the sofa and drinks half of it in one long swig. He drains the other half hoping it will chase the fear from him as the sun chases the horizon. As light swallows up the dark.

But the fear thrums on, real as a plague pulsing in his blood. A river of it rushing in his ears. The force of his pulse shakes him from the inside, reaching out until it’s the only thing in the world Tomas is aware of.

He has to get right by tomorrow. He has to. He has to be strong for Marcus. He swallows down the dread with another beer in his hand, and then another, praying his love is stronger than his fear of the dark.

—

The sun rises as it always does. It rises and it falls, through the parted curtains and into Tomas’ eyes, bright and warm on his face. He squints against the light and rubs at his eyes. His head throbs with the burden of one too many beers and far too little sleep. Dread pools low in Tomas’ belly, some gnawing thing, and when he pulls himself upright he can feel the shadows playing at his back where the sun refuses to settle.

The morning stumbles along at a slow drip, and Tomas can’t be certain if it’s a blessing or a curse. He terribly wants to be close to Marcus. He wants that all of the time, but he trudges through the hours certain he will soon become just another burden. He spends the time he has after mass with his nose buried in Psalms, hoping for some sign. _Save me, God, for the waters have reached my neck. I have sunk into the mire of the deep, where there is no foothold. I have gone down to the watery depths; the flood overwhelms me._

The sign never comes, but by noon he feels stronger all the same. Not relieved of his burden, and certainly not at peace with his new knowledge of the dark, but capable of carrying himself toward his friend with some semblance of calm, and a renewed sense of purpose. Less tempted to turn to books and internet searches that will certainly send him tumbling down into the one place he’s promised Marcus he will not go. He cannot break his promise to a friend. Not this friend. Never this one.

The terror will stay lurking. Answers may come in time.

Tomas finds Marcus in the sun dappled nave of St. Sebastian’s, standing near the altar with his chasuble on. _Holy, holy,_ thinks Tomas. _He is holy and divine. The Devil is no match for what he has inside._ Marcus turns to Tomas as he approaches from the aisle, his expression shifting from somber to reverant the instant their eyes meet across the distance.

When Tomas reaches the altar, he reaches out a hand, curls it around Marcus’ shoulder. “Are you all right?”

A silly question, all things considered, but Marcus smiles and leans into the touch. “Better now that you’re here.”

Oh. Marcus’ words are smooth as honey, twice as sweet. Tomas’ hand moves to Marcus’ face. His cheek is warm to the touch. “How did you sleep?”

“I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Never mind that.” Marcus pulls away, turns his back, circles the altar, his restless energy thick as the scent of incense hanging in the air. “You said you wanted to take me somewhere.”

“I do.”

“Then let’s go.”

“You’re not curious where?”

“As long as I’m with you, it doesn’t matter.”

Tomas’ eyes follow Marcus as he moves, wrapped in the purple of his vestment, he may as well be sprouting wings. Glorious feathers reaching to the sky, touching Heaven, finding God at last. Light pools around Marcus’ head and he is brilliant, carrying with him the unmistakable edge of a memory, one unfolding right before Tomas’ eyes. Right then, it’s enough to make Tomas forget about the dark. The Devil cannot touch them in this light.

“Guess I should go change,” Marcus says, completing his circle, brushing past Tomas’ back, slipping his fingers along Tomas’ shoulder, a kiss from his fingertips.

“I like you like this,” says Tomas, taking Marcus by the shoulders, drawing him close. Folding him into his arms, Tomas whispers, “You’re beautiful.”

“Tomas.” Marcus clings to Tomas with his strong hands. “Don’t say such things to me.”

“It is the truth,” Tomas whispers against Marcus’ ear, feeling Marcus shudder in his arms. “I will never tell you anything but what is true, my love.”

Marcus stiffens in Tomas’ arms before going slack, slumping his head onto Tomas’ shoulder, clinging to him as though he may fall off the earth if he dares let go. “We can’t do this here,” he mutters, almost as an afterthought.

“God’s eyes have already witnessed our love.”

“It’s not God’s eyes I’m worried about.”

Tomas laughs gently, and slowly they part. When Marcus pulls back his eyes are damp and wide, wild with exhaustion and rimmed in pink. “Come on,” he says, turning away, and Tomas follows Marcus out of the nave and down the hall.

They shut themselves inside Marcus’ office. Marcus strips off his chasuble and hangs it on the hook by the door. He reaches for his collar, but Tomas has his fingers playing along the snap in the back before Marcus can reach it.

“Allow me,” says Tomas, snapping off the collar in one slow, swift movement. An intimacy deep and familiar as a kiss. 

“The waistcoat, too, if you’re feeling so inclined,” Marcus mutters, splaying his fingers out on top of his desk, bracing himself for Tomas’ touch. 

Tomas can’t imagine denying Marcus such a thing. Tomas can’t imagine denying himself the pleasure of this moment. It’s selfish, really, serving him in such a way. “Of course.”

Tomas slips one thin strap between his fingers, the leather supple with age. With reverence he works it open, then sets to working open another. It’s a relic, this waistcoat, something Marcus has for certain been wearing for years. Decades. Tomas wonders at the darkness it has surely seen, clear as Marcus’ own eyes. Knowing the touch of the Devil sure as his own hands.

The waistcoat slips from Marcus’ body like the shedding of skin. Tomas places it on the desk next to the collar, places his hands on Marcus, gently spins him around. In his collarless white shirt, Marcus appears a mass of jutting bone, the slump of his shoulders conveying his exhaustion as deeply as his eyes. The flesh of his neck is warm when Tomas places his hands there, feeling Marcus’ pulse jump beneath his thumbs. 

Marcus allows himself to be moved silently, his eyes falling shut. Tomas pushes him back against the desk and Marcus perches on the edge. Tomas pushes in between Marcus’ parted thighs and presses a kiss to the center of his eager throat. Marcus moans. He white knuckles the edge of the desk. The line of his body says he would allow Tomas to do anything in this moment. Show him everything. Take him anywhere.

“Where are we going?” Marcus mutters, his head lolling to the side as Tomas’ lips continue their exploration.

“To find God,” Tomas whispers against Marcus’ skin.

Marcus laughs, a drunken little sound, ecstasy and exhaustion becoming one. “Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”

“Do you feel God with me?” Tomas asks, knowing what a twisted mess the answer is before the words have even left his mouth.

Marcus straightens his posture and meets Tomas’ eyes. “God is loud,” he says plainly, shifting his eyes down to his own hands, now upturned in his lap. “My head is quiet when I’m with you. In a good way. But it’s like remembering. Remembering what that felt like.”

“To feel God.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t _really_ feel him?”

Marcus shakes his head. “No. Not really.”

Tomas pulls back with a sinking in his chest. “We can go now, if you want to.”

Marcus nods, reaching for Tomas. “Okay. Yeah. Take me there.”

—

They get lost on the way there. Tomas has only been to this spot one time before, and driving from the other direction he’s all turned around in his head. They end up resorting to the less-than-stellar directions app on Marcus’ phone, but after several detours and more bickering than is probably necessary, they make it there all the same. By the time Tomas pulls into the makeshift parking lot—that, in truth, is nothing more than a square of trodden-over grass scattered with gravel—Marcus is nodding off against the window.

Tomas nudges him gently. “Marcus.”

Marcus makes a sleepy little sound and gasps himself awake. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and looks around. “All this way just to take me into the woods?”

Tomas smirks. “Trust me.”

Tomas exits the car and Marcus follows without another word. They trudge from the parking lot to a narrow path that’s all but overgrown, walking in silence until there’s nothing but trees all around them, skeletal branches dripping leaves in shades of autumn gold.

“If I didn’t know better, Father Tomas, I’d think you were bringing me out here to hide from God. Not find Him.”

Tomas’ shoulder bumps against Marcus’ and he smiles. “Oh? And why would I do that?”

Marcus shoots Tomas a glance that’s halfway between wanting and amusement, and though exhaustion still hangs heavy on his features, he appears a touch less burdened. For now, Tomas thinks, that’s really all that matters.

And in the distance, the sound of water. As they continue on, it becomes their new companion, and Tomas knows they’re getting close. “Not long now,” he says. “Do you hear it?”

“Sounds like a stream,” Marcus says, a bit incredulous. “There’s one of those near my house, you know.”

Tomas shakes his head. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I do.”

Tomas reaches over, takes Marcus’ hand, laces their fingers together. “Then there’s no need to be so stubborn.”

Marcus relaxes into it, lets his body slip right up next to Tomas’ as they walk. Leaves crunch beneath their shoes along the path. The sound of water grows ever-louder. And then, nearer and nearer, a clearing comes into view, the trees parting to the earth like an embrace, to the thin strip of a stream carved out into the earth. It’s so shallow they can see right down to the bottom.

“Not much to look at, is it?” Marcus says with a laugh.

Tomas pulls his hand away, settles down onto the bank. “Sit with me.”

“All right, all right.” Marcus fall down next to Tomas on the ground, settles in close, pressing the lines of their bodies together from shoulder-to-hip. 

Tomas slings an arm around Marcus’ shoulder, drawing him close. “Now just try to be still.”

“I am still.”

“Shut your eyes. Come here. Rest your head on my shoulder.” 

Marcus curls his body inward, comes to rest right where Tomas wants him.

“Okay. Now just try and clear your mind.”

Marcus huffs out a laugh. “Might just nod off if you’re not careful.

Tomas runs his hand up the nape of Marcus’ neck. “That’s okay. Just stay close to me. Listen to the water.”

“God’s in that stream, is He?”

“God is all around us, hermano. Everywhere.”

“If God is everywhere why did you bring me into the woods so far from home?”

Tomas nuzzles into Marcus, his heart beating a little faster now, his pulse clear and bright at every point. “Maybe you were right,” he whispers. “Maybe I was just trying to get you all alone. Somewhere far from home…”

Marcus sighs. “It’s beautiful here,” he says. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Just listen now. Be present in this moment with me.”

Tomas lets his eyes slip shut. He and Marcus cling to one another. The water flows. Starlings cry on nearby branches. Distantly, the snapping of twigs. A deer perhaps. Tomas can’t conceive of it being another human being, can’t conceive of there being anyone else left alive. At his side, Marcus is breathing, drawing breath like water moving steadily through the earth. His body a warm, solid constant. Tomas allows himself to drift.

God is in this stream. He is. Tomas can feel Him there. God is in the rocks that lie tumbling at the bottom, smooth creatures writhing on their backs. God is in the clouds and the grass and the muddy bank beneath their shoes. God is in the bony fingers of the branches whipping leaves into the chilled air. God is in the man held close at Tomas’ side, inside the both of them, making them one. Making them whole. God is the eye that sees this union, smiles upon it, has allowed it to become. Nothing about this could ever be a sin in the eyes of their Lord. Sin turns its wicked eyes from love and into the dark. To be with Marcus is to be in the light of love. At the very center of its existence.

Marcus’ lips graze the side of Tomas’ neck and he gasps, pulled from his thoughts back into the light of the world. The gentle waters seem raging now, pumping out their song in time with the rushing of Tomas’ blood in his ears. “Marcus,” he mutters. “Marcus.”

“I can feel you here so clearly,” whispers Marcus, his lips tracing the line of Tomas’ ear. “You, the earth. Inside of me. I—”

Tomas blinks, once, twice, pulls air into his lungs. Marcus is climbing into his lap at once and the world seems to tumble all around them. Time slows, water moves. Their hearts beat so loud it nearly drowns out the stream and the wind and the birds and all of creation. Their lips find each other quickly. Tomas is tumbling back, Marcus is pushing him down, straddling Tomas’ hips and devouring his mouth. Tomas slips his hands down the back of Marcus’ pants. Marcus gasps into his mouth, breathing into him, filling Tomas’ lungs.

Tomas cannot bring himself to pull away, to beg Marcus to stop. How could he? He doesn’t want this to end. How could he ever need to? This is what this place was meant for all along. What their Lord has created it for with His own hands. The two of them melding together, their bodies pressing nearer and nearer, as if becoming one. Marcus’ erection tents the front of his pants and presses obscenely into Tomas’ hip. Tomas’ own arousal pumps hotly in his blood.

This is not a forgetting place. They are not hiding away. This is where they have come to remember, be it God or one another. The Church may frown on such a thing, deem it a sin, say they have shattered their vows, but what does it matter? To resist the pull of another soul so completely as to damage your own cannot be what God intended. The Church creates rules for the bodies of men. God’s laws govern from the heart.

“Make love to me, Tomas,” Marcus pants against Tomas’ lips. “Please. I don’t want to wait any longer. I don’t care if it’s a sin. I don’t care if—”

“Shh.” Tomas’ chest heaves with the force of his breathing. Gently, he nudges Marcus off of him. “Lie next to me. It’s alright. Lie on your side and face me. Yes, yes. That’s it.”

Marcus lies next to Tomas, the whole of him trembling. He grips the front of Tomas’ shirt like a lifeline. “Please,” he begs, again and again, muttering the word until it slips into nothing, gives way to his ragged breathing.

“I’ll take care of you,” Tomas whispers, pressing himself as close to Marcus as he can manage. “Take these off.” He tugs at Marcus’ pants. “Push them down for me. Just low enough for me to… Yes. Yes. Good.”

Their lips find each other as they work Marcus’ pants open, clumsily shoving them down around his thighs. Blindly, Tomas reaches between their bodies, finding the heavy pulse of Marcus’ erection and taking it into his hand. Tomas’ head spins and his own cock aches between his legs so terribly he nearly comes himself as he begins to stroke. Marcus cries out, digs his fingers into Tomas’ shoulder, his cock dripping all over Tomas’ fingers.

“This is not a sin, my love. How could it be? You are so beautiful. That’s it. Just hold onto me. Oh, Marcus. Mi amor. Just let go now. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“Tomas. Tomas. Tomas.” Marcus cries out. This is a prayer and a psalm. A holy sacrament. The holy word made true. This is the only name in the world held beneath Marcus’ tongue. Tomas swallows it down with a kiss.

Tears fall hot and wet from Marcus’ eyes and Tomas tastes them on his lips. Holy water, holy chrism, anointing him. Marcus’ cock pulses in Tomas’ hand and his body trembles terribly as branches caught in a storm, the line of his body drawn tight as a string overwound. He is begging to be plucked, to be freed of the burden of his desire. Of that which has lived between them since they were born together in this new world. Crying out, Marcus spills his release all over Tomas’ hand, and Tomas swears that he can feel it, clear and real as his own. His own cock throbs between his legs, and as Marcus sobs and holds onto him tightly, spilling the last of his warmth down Tomas’ fingers, Tomas too is coming, untouched and filled to the brim with love. Overflowing with it. Tears burst from his eyes. He cannot feel the earth now beneath their trembling bodies. There is no ground. They are falling, falling…

They are free.

They lie together with their eyes shut and their mouths lazily kissing and their bodies going slack until they’ve remembered how to speak again. Rolling onto his back, Marcus says, “There are no words for the way that I feel right now.”

Coming to rest with his ear pressed to Marcus heart, Tomas says, “The words will come when they need to.”

The stream trickles slowly at their feet, off into the distance, into memory. The birds continue their calling, near and far. Marcus’ heart beats on like an old familiar song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I officially feel certain that the end is in sight and this is going to wrap up at chapter 19. The Boys could decide to be difficult of course, so that very well could change, but I'm going to do my best to keep them in line. And I am also certain that there will need to be a sequel to this in the near future, so I guess the end here isn't truly going to be The End. xD


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is different now. 
> 
> Marcus kicks off his shoes, rolls his pants up mid-calf, and dips his feet into the water. The stream carries with it the memory of summer, warm but growing colder by the day. If there is a chill to be found within it, Marcus doesn’t feel it. His skin seems alive with a song.

Everything is different now. 

Marcus kicks off his shoes, rolls his pants up mid-calf, and dips his feet into the water. The stream carries with it the memory of summer, warm but growing colder by the day. If there is a chill to be found within it, Marcus doesn’t feel it. His skin seems alive with a song.

From behind, Tomas’ lips drag along the nape of his neck. Tomas’ arms pull him close. “I’ve never felt closer to anyone in all my life,” Tomas whispers against Marcus’ ear. And then, so quiet Marcus may be imagining the words, “Not even God.”

“That’s blasphemy,” Marcus mutters, shutting his eyes, placing his hands over Tomas’ where they rest atop his chest, his heart pounding steadily and strong. The water flows freely around their ankles.

“He’ll understand.” Tomas laughs softly. “He made me for you, after all.”

This should be terrifying. And underneath it all, Marcus supposes that it is, this new baptism dragging darkness into light, dredging up the stumbling mass of his heart. Suddenly, Marcus is keenly aware of the weight of his own tongue, the space of his body in the water. The space of his body in Tomas’ arms. It feels at once too much for one person to handle. “You truly believe that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

Marcus breaks away from Tomas, turning to him in the moving water. “What I told you last night frightened you.”

Tomas hesitates. “Yes,” he says finally, searching Marcus’ eyes.

“I’m sorry, Tomas.”

“Don’t be.”

“I never wanted for you to—”

Tomas takes Marcus’ face gently in his hands. “Don’t be,” he says more firmly now.

Drinking in Tomas’ eyes, full to bursting with love, Marcus nods. “I’m trying. I am.”

“I know that you are.”

Shapeless emotions fill Marcus to the brim, until he’s certain he will burst. “We should get back soon. Don’t you think?” he says, breathing with a quickness.

“Yes.” Tomas sighs, pulling his hands away, leaving the memory of their warmth behind. “We should. Are you hungry?”

Has Marcus eaten at all today? He cannot seem to remember anything before this moment. His stomach rumbles. He decides that he probably hasn’t. “A little.”

“Then I’ll feed you,” says Tomas, brushing a finger along the curve of Marcus’ cheek.

They slip their dirty, damp feet into their socks and into their shoes. Tomas smiles. Marcus cannot place precisely what he is feeling. And then Tomas steals Marcus’ mouth in one last, gasping kiss before they force their bodies back into the world, back to an existence that Marcus feels half certain can no longer exist, and all is revealed to him at once. The pure, unbridled terror of being in love stumbling in his heart.

—

As a young exorcist, Marcus was certain his life would end like this: Blood in his mouth and on his hands. His own, the blood of another. Some stinking thing standing over him with his heart in its hands. Slipping from light to dark and light again, folding ever-deeper into God’s unerring love. Home in the arms of his Father. His suffering rewarded at last. His love and devotion returned tenfold.

There’d been no reason to wish for anything more. For him, what else could there be? God had chosen him, plucked him out of the fold and into a life of true purpose. A life spent alone and aching made worth it for the glint in the eyes of a child when their life returned, when the thing ravaging their little body was no more. And then, it was over. A blink and a snap of bone, and his life was sent tumbling down. 

And then—

Tomas.

Tomas stands before Marcus, slipping out of his clothes. Lunch was sandwiches eaten as their knees knocked together on Tomas’ couch. Now, the shower is running, the sound of the water mingling with the rush of blood in Marcus’ ears until the whole of the world seems to buzz. Steam fills the little room and slips into his lungs.

“Come here,” says Tomas, his shirt falling from his shoulder.

“Not just yet,” mutters Marcus. “I just… want to see you.”

The whisper of fabric meeting floor. The metallic clink of a belt. Tomas bares himself completely before Marcus’ eyes, every strip of flesh more marvelous than the last. Tomas runs a hand along the slope of his own shoulder and Marcus feels envy spring to life beneath his fingers. To be those hands, to live inside of this man. To feel every part of him without fear. To—

“Marcus.” A blush sits high on Tomas’ cheeks. “You’re staring.”

Marcus laughs. “How else would I see you?”

“Come here,” Tomas pleads with his eyes, his mouth upturned in a smile, reaching out his hand. “Join me.”

And this. This is definitely too much. To feel him through the barrier of their clothes is one thing. Marcus supposes it’s even another to know the pleasure of Tomas’ hand. But this, seeing him in all of his glory, beckoning him close, Marcus is stricken all but paralyzed. He shuffles his feet and shoves his hands deep into his pockets, the whole of him burning from the inside. “I shouldn’t—”

“Hey, no. Marcus. It’s all right. It’s fine. I’m not trying to force you to do anything, I—”

“You’re not. You’re—” Marcus lets out a nervous little laugh. “You have no idea how beautiful you are.” Marcus lets his eyes drag over Tomas’ body again. “I just—”

The blush burns deeper now, Tomas’ cheeks tinged scarlet. “There is no need to explain.”

“I’ll just… wait for you. Out there.” Marcus swallows thickly, willing his eyes away from the tempting sweep of Tomas’ form.

“Okay. I won’t be long.”

“Okay.”

Marcus sits on the sofa and listens to the faint sound of the shower spray through the thin walls, anxiously rubbing his hands over his knees, his heart racing with such a force it rattles him inside out. And when Tomas emerges, freshly clad in his black vestments, a clean white notch at his throat, his hair damp and his eyes clear, Marcus is hit at once with the weight of reality settling back around them.

“You can ask me anything,” Marcus spits out. “Anything at all. I shouldn’t have asked you not to. That was unfair. I was just…” Marcus sighs hard. “I’m sorry.”

Carefully, Tomas takes a seat next to Marcus. He takes Marcus’ hand and is quiet for a long stretch of minutes, gazing down at the spot where their fingers meet. Finally, meeting Marcus’ eyes, he asks, “Where do they go? After the exorcism. The demons…”

“I don’t know. Back to Hell. Somewhere else. They’re just gone.”

“And the last one? The one that…”

“I don’t know.” Still in his mind Marcus can hear the quick snap of bone. The thud of a little body against the floor. “Still out there I suppose.”

“You’re worried it will come back. To hurt you. To hurt someone close.”

Marcus swells with the anticipation of tears. “I dreamed that it took you.”

“Oh, Marcus.”

“When Harper came to me, I was sure it had come back. It’s what they do. They want to take everything because they can.” Tears well but they don’t fall. “I was wrong about Harper, but it’s still out there.”

“Another exorcist could have…”

“Maybe.” Marcus’ eyes are at once heavy and aching for rest. “Maybe so.”

Tomas pulls Marcus into his arms, presses a kiss to the top of his head. “We’re going to be all right, my friend.”

“You’re scared, too. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I am. And I am still trying to wrap my head around everything you’ve told me. But I have you. We have each other. And I still believe that this is all a part of God’s plan for us.”

Marcus sighs, lets his eyes slip shut, listens closely to the ticking of Tomas’ heart. “I pray that you’re right, Tomas.”

“Let us pray together.”

And they do. They pray. Holding onto each other, they pray.

—

It begins with a touch. A tingling at the base of his skull, like fingers crawling up along his spine. A whisper of breath at the nape of his neck. Marcus takes his reading glasses off and looks around the semi-dark of the room. All is quiet and calm. He pushes back from his desk and checks the windows for a draft, runs his hand along the bottom of the door. The air doesn’t move. The night seems now too still, the creatures of the dark all but silent, the only sound filling the room the trembling of his own heart.

The clock reads just past one in the morning. He has no hope of getting so much as a wink of sleep tonight. Evening mass and absolution served as a good distraction from the thousand racing thoughts occupying every corner of his mind, but now he can’t seem to be still no matter how he tries. He’d texted briefly with Tomas after confession, spent far too long staring at the picture Tomas had sent along, a shot of his body splayed and half-undressed in his narrow bed, bordering on obscene, his face half-obscured by the angle. He thinks of pulling it up again and letting his eyes wander along with his hands. His heart springs to life with the memory of it.

As he reaches for his phone, desperate to keep his mind from slipping into something dark and terrifying, the touch transforms into sound, like television static seeping in from another room. Marcus leaves the phone behind on the bed and walks to the front window, parts the curtains, gazes out into the night. The static grows, blooming like a heartbeat in the center of his chest, slipping into his veins like a biting cold. 

Marcus is filling, filling up and spilling over, swelling with a noise he has not known since he was very small. Since that first night Father Sean locked him in that dank room with some dark thing snarling in the corner. His hands tremble as they did then. The static turns into a sharp and piercing sound and Marcus’ hair stands on end. Beneath his feet, the floor begins to tip and turn. There is a rumbling that grows from the very center of the earth and up into his bones, into his blood, rattling his teeth and turning his stomach until he thinks he’s going to tip right over.

He lets his knees buckle instead, going to the floor with a thud, taking his head in his hands. The screeching rises, the touch at his neck more forceful than a lover’s. The windows rattle and Marcus fears for a moment that they might shatter all around. The very air begins to quiver, glistening like a mirage, revealing something slipped just beneath the portrait of reality for which Marcus has never had any words. 

Marcus sobs. “Yes. Father. I can hear You.”

God, as a being, is shapeless. Existing without form outside the narrow scope of the human mind. He’d tried to explain it once, write down everything he’d seen that night as a child, but words had failed him from the very first line. We are created in His image only in theory, more in soul than in form. God is a hurricane of love and terror and noise and silence.

God is bursting through the curtains of Marcus’ home. The world has never been so bright. God is reaching into Marcus’ chest and massaging his heart until he’s certain he has met his end. This is it. The moment he has dreamed of all his life. His Lord has come calling at last. 

But the pictures that fill the spaces of his mind tell Marcus that he is wrong in an instant. God has not come to claim him, no. God has come with a message this time.

“Yes. Oh, God, yes. I am listening. Oh. Oh, my God. Yes. Yes. Of course. Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, I think the next chapter is really it?????? I feel like there has literally never been a time that I wasn't writing this fic lmao but I am so grateful to those of you who have stuck with me all this time. Your support and your lovely words are honestly the only reason I've stuck with this for as long as I have and I cannot thank you enough. <3


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus lies on the floor for a long time, bobbing in an ocean of static, the air around him warm as blood in a vein.

Marcus lies on the floor for a long time, bobbing in an ocean of static, the air around him warm as blood in a vein. Pictures swim through his mind, gentle flashes of memory, a glimpse of things to come, Tomas’ sweet face at the center of it all. Tomas, Tomas, Tomas. The name a prayer. A mantra. A destiny.

Slowly, Marcus crawls up onto the bed, curls up on his side, paws for his phone until it finds its way into his hand. His ears are useless as his tongue, so with shaking fingers he manages a text. _Need u,_ he sends to Tomas with great effort, then lets the phone fall from his hand and down onto the floor. 

He swims and he drifts, his body electric. Distantly, Marcus is aware of the phone buzzing on the floor. It stops. It buzzes again. Time passes. It may be seconds or minutes or hours or decades, but Marcus thinks not that long, if only for registering the darkness beyond the curtains when he blinks himself back into existence at the sound of the front door clicking shut.

“Marcus.” Tomas’ sweet voice, like a song drifting into his ears, and hands on Marcus’ body, moving him until he is upright, his feet dangling down from the edge of the bed until they hit the floor. Tomas kneels between Marcus’ knees, gripping his face, shaking him frantically. “Marcus, can you hear me?”

Marcus sniffs, laughs. He is drunker than he’s ever been. He gives his tongue a try. “There you are.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong.”

“Tell me what happened. Look at me. Marcus, just try and focus on me.”

Tomas’ face swims before Marcus’ eyes. If only he could focus. He would very much like to see such a face. “I just—I need to—I—”

“All right, okay. Okay.” Tomas sighs and pulls his hands away from Marcus’ face, grips Marcus by the shoulders, and then he is moving again. Marcus allows his body to move anywhere Tomas desires. “Come on, lie down. Come here. Rest your head in my lap. That’s it.”

Marcus buries his face in Tomas’ lap, pressing warmly against his hip. Tomas drags his fingers along Marcus’ scalp, whispering something in Spanish that Marcus might be able to identify were his brain not clawing its way back from such distant places. Tomas’ hands are a balm to Marcus’ flesh, each pass of his fingers bringing Marcus alive and springing connections back to life inside his skull.

“Do you need a doctor?” Tomas asks after some time.

Marcus manages, with some assistance, to roll onto his back. Blearily, he gazes up at Tomas’ face in the semi-dark. “No, no. Nothing like that. I’m all right. Better than. I swear it, Tomas. Something wonderful has happened.”

Tomas looks at him as though he’s gone mad, and maybe he has. Maybe this has all just been some fantastic dream, a cracking of his mind. Maybe so. Maybe you can want something so terribly that—No. Marcus is certain. There is no imagining such a thing. No force in the universe capable of such imitation.

“Can you sit up?” Tomas asks, and with a little less effort than it took to get him down, Tomas helps Marcus sit up and lean back against the wall. “Marcus. Marcus.” Tomas’ eyes are spilling over with dread. “Tell me what happened to you.”

“Oh, Tomas.” Marcus sighs hard, offers him a lazy smile. “Don’t look so worried, love.”

“I could stop worrying if you’d just tell me what—”

“He came back to me,” Marcus spits out.

“Who?”

“Him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was sitting at my desk, reading over a homily and I felt it. His touch. And then…”

“You mean God.”

“Yes.” The word comes out a sigh. “Yes. He spoke to me.”

Tomas leans in very close. “Like when you were a child?”

“Yes, only this time it was—” Words seem insufficient. How can he explain such a thing with a tongue as human as his own? “It was different, Tomas. He showed me things.”

“What did he show you?”

“It was just flashes. Fragments. Pieces of something greater. But you were—Tomas, you were there. You were right. You were. When you said that…” His strength returning, Marcus reaches for Tomas’ hands, takes them in his own. “He wants us to be together, Tomas.”

Tomas’ eyes grow wider by the second. “Marcus, I don’t—”

“You don’t have to understand. You don’t. You only need to know that this is where we belong. Right here. Together.”

Tomas’ face twists with confusion. “Something is going to happen.”

“Maybe. Yes. I think so.” Marcus takes Tomas’ face in his hands. “There is no reason for fear now, Tomas. Not as long as we’re together.”

Tomas trembles gently beneath Marcus’ hands. “Tell me what He looks like.”

“I learned many languages in my travels, Tomas. None of them would suffice.”

“Just try, Marcus. Please. I need to—”

“I can’t tell you,” Marcus breathes out, drawing Tomas nearer, their limbs beginning to tangle. And into Tomas’ ear he whispers, “He’s still inside of me. I wonder, do you think you’d be able to feel Him there?”

Tomas gasps, and where their bodies are pressing together Marcus feels the shuddering beneath Tomas’ clothes. “Marcus.” He grips the back of Marcus shirt and pulls him closer, their lips coming together with trembling ease. Their bodies move in a dance known only to them. Marcus lies flat on his back, parts his thighs for Tomas to settle between. Tomas pins Marcus’ wrists above his head and presses into him with an aching kiss.

Marcus has never felt more sure of anything in all his life. This is where he was always meant to be. This is where he belongs, beneath this man, taking the sweet breath of his mouth into his lungs, their hearts stumbling together. Marcus wraps his legs around Tomas middle, drawing him nearer, swallowing down the gasp that slips from his mouth.

Tomas breaks away panting, looking down at Marcus with wanting eyes. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Tomas is radiant, a light from somewhere distant spilling from his body and his eyes. Marcus can only nod, and when Tomas pulls away, Marcus wants to chase him. But he doesn’t go far, sitting back on his heels and running a hand down the front of Marcus’ shirt. “Let me see you,” he says. “All of you.”

God’s grace thrumming in his veins, Marcus somehow manages to pull himself upright. Tomas moves from the bed but stays close, standing near enough to help Marcus strip his shirt away and toss it to the floor. His pants are next. They laugh when they get all caught up around Marcus’ ankles. This is an occasion for joy, Marcus reminds himself, though his heart is racing quicker than he can ever recall. And when all that remains between Tomas’ gentle gaze and Marcus’ flesh is a thin pair of briefs, Tomas drops to his knees, rests his head on Marcus’ naked thigh. Marcus slips his fingers through Tomas’ dark hair.

“Eres el amor de mi vida,” Tomas breathes out. He lifts his eyes to Marcus. Marcus strokes his stubbled cheek. Tomas pulls back, sets his eyes lower with a hunger, to the spot where Marcus’ arousal tents the front of his briefs. “I have thought of this moment in particular so many, many times, my friend.”

Trembling, Marcus lifts his hips, allowing Tomas to slip his briefs down and off and toss them somewhere distant. His pulse rattles deep down in his bones. Every place where Tomas touches feels electric. He runs his hands up Marcus’ thighs and Marcus is set ablaze, wanting in such a way it borders on agony.

Tomas wraps a hand around Marcus’ aching cock. Marcus gasps, cradles the back of Tomas’ neck, resists the urge to claw and scratch and howl. “Te amo,” he blurts out instead, watching Tomas’ eyes fill with awe and love and something dark and animal.

“Te amo mucho,” Tomas purrs, pressing a gentle kiss to the head of Marcus’ cock. “So much, Marcus. Let me show you.”

_Oh._ The memory of God’s voice rises in Marcus’ ears, his skin alive with song. Tomas takes Marcus into his mouth and Marcus feels at once he is going to burst. He presses his feet flat against the floor, certain he is going to sink. Tomas’ tongue is clumsy, inexperienced, dripping with adoration and devotion, pulling shameless music from the well of Marcus’ belly.

Marcus threads his fingers into Tomas’ hair. “I want you inside of me, Tomas,” he moans. “Please. Please. Please.”

Tomas lets Marcus slip from his mouth, his lips glistening and parted obscenely when he meets Marcus’ gaze. “Are you sure?”

Marcus laughs, tears welling in his eyes. “More sure than I’ve ever been.”

Tomas nods, presses a kiss to the inside of Marcus’ wrist. He pulls away, he walks to the kitchen. Marcus’ heart does a little dance when he sees what Tomas has returned with. “Is this all right?”

Marcus watches Tomas set the olive oil down on the desk and begin the task of unbuttoning his shirt. Marcus nods, his face so hot he wants to hide away. “Yes,” he mutters. Tomas lets his shirt fall to the floor, the sight of him so beautiful it feels impossible. _Thank you, Lord, for creating this man._

Tomas kicks off his shoes, unlatches his belt. “No,” Marcus spits out. “Just… come here. Let me.”

Tomas draws near. He touches Marcus with such reverence. Marcus uses his trembling fingers to slip Tomas’ belt free, unbutton his fly. Tomas is hard, so hard that Marcus can feel it, can taste it on his tongue. He nuzzles into the place where Tomas’ arousal tents the front of his pants. Tomas grips the back of Marcus’ neck, lets out the gentlest of moans.

The world around them turns fragmentary, and in between laughter and moans they manage to strip Tomas bare. Marcus’ mouth finds its way to Tomas’ cock. He takes him in like communion, a soul-deep sacrament that sends Marcus’ head spinning and his blood aching for more. He pulls back, tasting Tomas still, and gazes up in adoration at Tomas’ darkening eyes.

“I want,” are the only words Marcus can manage, and in a flash Tomas has fetched the bottle from the desk, pressed Marcus down onto the mattress, joined him on the bed.

“Like this, face me. That’s it.” Tomas draws Marcus near to him, pulls Marcus leg up to drape across his hip. Tomas lets out a nervous little laugh. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Marcus laughs softly, nuzzles into Tomas. “Your body knows my body as its own. You’re doing perfect, my love.”

Tomas swallows and nods, his heart beating so loudly Marcus can hear it, feel it drumming against his own chest. Tomas draws Marcus’ leg up higher still. “I hope you don’t care about these sheets.”

Marcus blushes harder now. “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

With some effort and a little laughter, they uncap the oil and slick Tomas’ fingers. Tomas drags them down across Marcus’ entrance and Marcus gasps. He has never felt so outside of himself yet so alive. As if he is splitting in two and becoming whole at once.

Marcus experiences the next moments in flashes and waves. Tomas slips a finger into Marcus’ body and Marcus thinks, _this is it. This is the moment I cease existing. You are within me. We have become one another._ The stretch is delicate, a penetration deep into Marcus’ soul, and when Tomas slips in a second finger Marcus cries out, digs his fingers into Tomas’ shoulders, Tomas buries his face in the hollow of Marcus’ throat.

Their bodies tangle and rock together, Tomas’ fingers curving into Marcus’ body. Marcus lets out an agonizing groan. “Please,” he begs, balancing on an edge he never wishes to fall from, his cock aching between the press of their bodies. “Please, Tomas. I want it. All of you. Now. Please.”

Marcus aches at the loss of Tomas’ fingers. In a swirl limbs and heartbeats, Tomas pulls back, presses Marcus down onto his back, spreads Marcus' thighs, sits back on his heels and slicks himself with oil. Tomas gazes down at Marcus like he’s something holy, and in that moment Marcus knows that he is. They are. This is.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Tomas says, his eyes etched with concern and lust and something for which Marcus has no words.

“You won’t,” Marcus breathes out, pressing a hand to the center of Tomas’ chest. "You won't."

And, oh, this is the opposite of hurt, Marcus thinks as Tomas spreads him wider, presses in, so gently at first he’s barely moving at all. The light of Heaven bursts behind Marcus’ eyes. Tomas settles in, presses his heart to Marcus’ heart, their bodies melding as one. And, so deep he can go no further, shuddering so terribly Marcus feels it in his bones, Tomas whispers, “I can feel Him. I can feel Him there. Inside of you. Here with us now.”

“I feel you, Tomas,” Marcus cries out, filled to the brim. “I feel you.”

Tomas gasps, rocks his hips, sets up a gentle little rhythm. It’s too much, it’s not enough, Marcus holds Tomas closer, wraps him in his arms and in his legs, overcome with the pleasure of it every time Tomas pushes deeper inside. Marcus’ cock leaks and aches where it’s pressed between their bodies, and he knows for certain he is not going to last.

Tomas’ body shakes with the force of his wanting. “I’m so close,” he whispers against Marcus’ temple. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Tears well in Marcus’ eyes. “It’s all right. Tomas, it’s okay. I’m right there with you, my love. Don’t hold back. I’m there. I’m there.”

Tomas cries out, and Marcus’ body fills with a force equal to that of God’s love, stronger. Something deep and ancient, a melding of the souls such that they can never be undone. Tomas presses in one last time and Marcus is coming in hot spurts between their bodies, and Tomas too is spilling his love, flooding into Marcus as they tremble and sob and cry out their devotion.

His eyes screwed shut, Marcus drifts into the static of such bliss. Tomas’ heart beating with his heart, Tomas’ breath becoming Marcus’ own. Their bodies part and curve together anew. Marcus holds Tomas close to his chest and feels the warmth of tears spilling from Tomas' eyes onto his skin. He strokes Tomas’ hair, sheds tears of his own.

And in the coming down, sleep weighs heavy on their eyes and on their limbs. They rest and they drift, unconcerned with the mess left in the wake of their union. And there is no shame, no guilt, no doubt. There is only love, cradled in the arms of one another, in the hands of their Lord above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tacking on a little epilogue as chapter 20, but I can't believe this is the end. Well, technically. I mean, I'm 100% certain on writing a sequel to this so I promise anything that feels like a loose end is going to roll over into part 2, but I don't know when I'm going to begin to work on it exactly. I have a few other fics I want to knock out before then, but I'm hoping to have it going by the end of the year at the latest...
> 
> Okay. Epilogue time. Go on, now. I'll meet you over there to weep about The Boys.


	20. epilogue

Marcus sighs into the semi-dark of the confessional. He’s spent the day smiling so incessantly that his cheeks actually ache. He never thought it possible to be so content. There is a fear, of course, somewhere distant, somewhere for now beyond himself. Marcus is no fool. The day is soon to come that darkness will fall. But for now, this is enough. God has not abandoned him.

The confessional opens. On the other side of the partition, someone settles in. “Hey,” Tomas drawls, and Marcus knows that he is smiling. Smiling so wide he could light the whole of the world.

“Hey.”

“How are you feeling?”

Marcus beams. “Big as a mountain. How are you?”

“I’m good.” Tomas laughs. “I am so good, my friend.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I have a question, and there is no pressure and you don’t have to say yes and you don’t have to—”

Marcus shakes with laughter. “Just ask your question, Tomas.”

Tomas huffs out a nervous laugh. “Okay. Okay.” He sighs hard. “My sister wants to have you over for dinner. Tomorrow night. And I would love for you to come and get to know my family and—”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Father Tomas.”

“Thank you, Marcus,” Tomas breathes out. “I can’t wait for you to know them.”

Marcus presses his hand to the partition. “I miss you.”

“I am right here, Marcus.”

“This morning seems a whole lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

“Are you saying that you need a reminder?”

Marcus’ pulse quickens. “And what if I am?”

“I’d say I have dinner waiting for us at my place right now.”

“And I’d say that sounds like Heaven on earth.”

Next to him, Tomas goes quiet. Marcus can almost feel the cogs turning in his mind. Finally he says, “We’re going to need to talk about it at some point, you know. What He showed you. What you saw. Even if it were only fragments.”

“I know, Tomas. I know. We will. I promise you that we will.”

“And I want to know about demons. You don’t have to tell me now, but... I don’t want to be left in the dark, mi amor.”

Marcus shoves the rising dread somewhere far away. “You won’t be. I promise. I’ll tell you everything that you need to know.”

“All right. Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the mood with such things.”

Marcus smiles, thinking of Tomas’ hands on his skin. “You haven’t ruined anything.”

“I’m glad.”

Marcus flips the screen open, drinking in the vision of Tomas’ face. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “I’m starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so emotional about posting this final part you guys have no idea. Thank you to all of you who have stuck with me on this journey for months now, and for all your lovely words of support and encouragement. I love these boys so much and I know I'm going to have to make them suffer a whole lot more in the sequel because there are some very dark things to come for them, but for now I'm happy to leave them in peace knowing there's going to be a whole lotta softness and love and lbr endless nights of fucking their brains out in the meantime. I can't wait to write the sequel. I can't wait to write the other fics I have in mind for them and take them on a million soft and painful journeys. I just... love these boys so much and I'm going to write about them forever and ever. <3


End file.
